


What A Frukus!

by twoscarypandas



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dom/sub, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, dom!England, sub!America, switch!France
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:12:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoscarypandas/pseuds/twoscarypandas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"After all, there are no last words more famous than, "Hey France, I'm bored. Wanna do something?"" America and France make use of England's place. Pure smut and fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foreplay: Boredom

Foreplay: Boredom

Over the years, Alfred has gotten to know most of the important nations pretty well. Well-- none of them are really as important as he is, but some of them are still pretty vital, particularly when it comes to wars and stuff. Anyway, the experience has given him some pretty useful knowledge. One such vital piece of knowledge: who to go to when you're really, really bored. It’s pretty obvious that, if you can't torture England, France is the way to go. After all, there are no last words more famous than, "Hey France, I'm bored. Wanna do something?"

Luckily, he’s the Hero. So the chances of him getting killed by whatever plan Francis cooks up to sweep him away from boredom are slim.

Wandering down the hall, sucking on an extra-extra-extra-large Pepsi, he heads toward France's room, passing a few lesser nations on the way there with a friendly little wave/pat on the back/headslap. After all, what kind of Super Nation would he be if he didn't show the little guys he kind of cared?

By the time he reaches France’s room, he is feeling benevolent and stuff, but no less bored. So he listens at the door for a moment, wondering if he's actually reached the nation at a time of rest-- rare these days. Or any day, really. After a moment of nothing but quiet, he throws the door open, not even looking to see where France is. “Hey, France! I'm bored as all hell, and lookin' for somethin' to do! Let's go do something stupid that will probably result in war!”

No response. In fact, the room is empty—no France or French plaything to be found.

“Huh.” America frowns, befuddled. France isn't there. Well, maybe he's out with somebody. He does that a lot. Still-- prime snooping opportunity. “SWEET!” he cries out, very loudly. “I'm gonna go through all France's stuff, and find out all his most embarrassing secrets! Yeah!”

He sets his cup on the nightstand, not really caring that it will leave a wet ring. Then he sets about pulling out all his drawers, dumping out their contents, singing a little song as he works. “I'm gonna blackmail Francis, I'm gonna blackmail Francis, I'm gonna blackmail Fraaaancis~! Because I totally can!”

The song does more than simply elevate the spying process. Down the hall, Canada wakes with the sound of the little tune and sighs. He really doesn’t want to be hit for his brother's mistake – and isn’t that how this always goes? Afraid that Alfred is about to get them both in trouble AGAIN, he goes out to investigate. Wait - what is he doing in Francis's room? Why is he singing about...oh no. Oh no, he is going through all of France's stuff, and that means Alfred might find the video he let France take that one time and promised no one else would ever see, _especially_ not Alfred, oh no no no!

“A-alfred?” He tries calling into the room. “I, uh, really don't think France would appreciate you leaving such a mess...or going through his stuff...”

Jolting at the sudden sound of someone using his given name, America whips around to see-- Huh? “Um...”He blinks, cocking his head to the side. That guy looks kind of familiar. Actually, he looks kind of like _him_. He shakes himself out of it. Whatever-- whoever he is, he looks kinda puny. And he definitely doesn’t look like he'll tell on him. So really, it is just a case of whether he should shoo him away or drag him along on this adventure. “Well, France doesn't need to appreciate it, because he's not going to know! Yeah! Because I'm the best spy on the planet, and I know exactly what I'm doing!”

“But won't he notice when he comes back and finds his stuff everywhere?” It's a little late, since it's already everywhere. But Alfred sometimes needs these obvious little tidbits pointed out to him. Discreetly looking around, Canada spots a picture sticking out of the nightstand drawer that looks distinctly like Prussia in a dress. He looks away with a squeak, praying that his own...indiscretions...are hidden a little better. France probably has that kind of dirt on everyone, though, so he supposes he shouldn't be too embarrassed. Except that he _is_ , he's blushing red as his _flag_.

Suddenly it occurrs to him thatthis little exercise might in fact be part of some plan to find pictures France has of _America_. So he has to ask. “Wh-what are you doing here, anyway?”

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, America finds a slow grin spreading over his lips. Awe, he’s blushing. Cute! He's not surprised, though. Any nation would blush like that when faced with a Super Nation like him.  “Oh, I was bored.” He sighs. “I thought France might be up for doing something, or, you know, failing that, have sex.”

Then the other shoe drops, and he realizes France's stuff is indeed all over the floor. Well, shit. “Oh, you're probably right! Or, you know, as right as you can be without making me wrong.” He starts putting the stuff away fast, mostly just shoving it all under France’s massive bed. “So, are _you_ up for doing anything?”

Canada’s relief at getting through to America dies a quick and painful death upon those words. This will only lead to trouble. For him, anyway, because America is as good at getting out of trouble as he is at getting in it. Or at least turning it into a problem for someone else to deal with. He swallows. “Um...France is at England's. He ran over me on his way there. We could find them?” Because at least England is logical and willing to smack America across the head for his stupid ideas, world power or no.

To America, this was the best news ever. France and England, in the same room? Sweet. Party Central. “Hey, cool! Let's go!” He drops France's stuff on the floor and wanders out of the room, heading for England's, knowing the cute nation is following behind, because it's pretty much inferred that he wants him to.

Canada sighs and closes the door behind him. He has no idea why he's following Alfred. He never does. It isn't like anyone's going to remember his presence as soon as they walk through the door.

France, meanwhile is also bored. He’d come to torture England, but the fool claimed he had too much work. This didn't bother him in the least. That is, until England actually started ignoring all of his taunts and passes. England ignored it when he leaned over his chair and tried to get his hands inside England's shirt, and when he kissed his neck, and he couldn't even get a rise out of him when he tried palming his crotch. Nothing. That was just depressing. In a dramatic huff he’d flopped down on the couch and glared at Arthur's back. Maybe he should go back to his room and call a sex line or something. Oh, wait, had he remembered to lock the door?

 He’s still sprawled on England's couch, sulking, when the door opens. He quickly changes the sulk into a sexy recline, bringing a rose up in one hand. He glances toward the door through his eyelashes.  Ah, America. Just the nation he needs to get England to crack. “Amerique! Come in, please. We were just enjoying the evening.”

Huh. When he threw open England's door, he’d expected to find them having sex. But they're not. They're just lounging around. BORING. “Hey, France! I was looking for you, 'cause I was bored, and somebody told me you were here! Wanna do something?”

_Mon Dieu_ , Francis thinks. _I love this boy._ He needed the rescue, and isn't it just like Alfred to be the hero? He smirks. “Ohonhon, I am always glad to _do_ something. What do you think, Angleterre? Shall we _do_ something together?”

England rolls his eyes, throwing his work to the table. He's officially had enough of France and his constant need for attention. “Absolutely not. I've got work to do. And you're not helping.” He grabs his latest files and leaves, rolling his eyes at the very thought of what those two idiots would get into now. Probably start a war somewhere or something.

America can’t help pouting after England. “Well, that was kind of mean.” Still-- hey. France is here! And SO much less of a stick in the mud. “So! What'd'ya feel like doin'? Wanna have sex?”

France glares at the door, momentarily falling back into a sulk. Bastard. He never has time for fun, never did. England is so set in his ways that he forgets to acknowledge his friends - his family! And he wonders what drove Amerique away. Then Alfred mentions sex. Really, he loves the boy. His entire expression brightens. Bored sex; it's not the best there is, but it's something.

He rises from the couch and sways his way over to Alfred. “But of course, mon petit.” He runs the rose over Alfred's cheek. “It is too bad England left. I would have liked to see how far we could go before we managed to distract him properly. Ah, perhaps another time.” He leans in, his lips just brushing over Alfred's ear. “Where shall we go for this, hmm?”

Grinning happily, Alfred reaches out and slid his hands smoothly down Francis’ hips to his ass, cupping it and goosing it as he drags him closer. He's never been the type to mess around-- Francis knows that. Aggressive is, like, his middle name or something. He can't help shuddering a little, though, as those lips drag over the shell of his ear. How does he always know just how to make him blush? He never blushes! Oh-- wait, he's asking a question, isn't he? “Huh. Good question...”

Ooh, Amerique is so cute when he blushes! France is already getting excited, though it may have something to do with the hands on his ass. Alfred never learned the fine art of foreplay; it's a flaw he blames himself for, because England certainly was not the one who gave the boy a proper sexual education. He licks the ear while Alfred thinks, and it's just enough to bring that blush a little darker.

Hmm... Well, his room is boring. And so is France's, he checked. After a long moment of thought, it clicks. “Hey. You know what would _really_ piss Artie off...?” America grins cheekily at France, allowing him to fill in the blank.


	2. Round 1: The Couch

 

The suggestion makes France want to marry the boy. Metaphorically. He's not going down that road again. So instead he steps back, whips America around, and shoves him down onto the couch. He climbs on top and kisses him soundly.

_Oh Yeah!_ America does a little mental fist-pump. He should've known that would be the best way to get France to skip the foreplay and get right to it. If it pisses Artie off, he's so there. With a grin, he pulls Frannie in by his ass, dragging him in so tight that they're already grinding as they make out on the sofa. Their lips meet and mesh together with bruising force, tongues slicking together in that weird mix of aggression and complex seduction only they could achieve. Francis is always trying to slow him down, take control, but he's never been that guy to give up the reins easily, and he kind of gets the feeling he likes that. Go Hard or Go Home, right?

With a smirk against his mouth, Alfred pushes into those tight, tailored trousers and digs his fingers into his rump beneath them. Francis never wears underwear. What use is there for it, really, when he knows he'll probably just leave it somewhere unfortunate?

France sits up, out of breath and fairly well aroused. He lets Alfred grind them together, those big American hands firmly planted on his ass, while he works on removing the boy’s jacket and t-shirt. Alfred has always had a thing for his ass, and who is he to complain? Still, he's not entirely happy with the way things are flying forward. “For such an imaginative boy, Alfred, you are far too rushed when it comes to this.” He pushes Alfred's shirt up, since nothing is coming off as long as his hands are occupied. “There is so much more we could do, non?” He laps at a nipple to prove the point.

America laughs. “Ch'yeah, much more we can do to waste ti--Oh FUCK-!” He can’t even finish the thought as Francis licks over his left nipple. Okay. So, foreplay. Not really a waste. Not if it feels like that. _Fuck_. He pulls his hands from France's trousers, throwing off his jacket and shirt, and beginning to pull off France's.

“Damn, Francis.” He gasps the words, in awe of how easily such a thing could get him worked up. He leans in, slowly-- curiously-- pulling the man's shirt apart and revealing his skin beneath. He examines his naked chest with care. His nipples are already peaked. Licking his lips, America leans in, lapping over one slowly to see if it gains a reaction. “Like that?”

There are very few things France doesn't like. But America is looking for a reaction, so he makes sure his groan is low and loud. Encouraged, Alfred returns to his nipples, sending little bolts of lightning through his chest. Oh, how could he have forgotten how wonderful Alfred's mouth was? He brings his hands back to toy with Alfred's nipples in return, rubbing and twisting with the same concentration he dedicates to finding the combination on England's safe.

“FUCK...” America groans, loving every second of it. Hell Yes. Nipples. He's going to have to remember that. He pushes Francis to the couch, dragging his lips down his chest, moving lower, wanting to get his pants off. And Francis does love his mouth. It's almost surefire. Pulling open his fly, he leans in and takes the head of his cock into his mouth, sucking it hard, just at the tip. He wants to make him hard. Actually, he wants to make him ROCK hard. He doesn't ride anything less than rock hard cock. And he does love France' cock. He sucks it hard, his hand reaching down to toy with his balls, massaging them.

France doesn’t know, or care, how he wound up on his back. With America kissing down his chest and belly, dipping his tongue into his navel like that… He’s just going to go with it. He grins, utterly loving the glee Alfred takes in sex. It makes him feel younger, feel alive and- “Merde!” That mouth. He could make monuments to it. He had, actually; a massive copper lady with a torch and pursed lips. Liberty. Oh, yes, together they knew a thing or two about liberty. But his thoughts are scattered and collecting again at his cock, which Alfred is licking like a popsicle.

He puts a hand in Alfred's hair, and tugs hard on Nantucket, just the way Alfred likes. “All the way, Alfred. I know you can take it; swallow me.”

Unable to help it, America grins, his hand wrapping around that fat cock as he looks up at him, allowing him to tug his hair with need. Because of course France wants his mouth. He gives the best head ever. It's kind of an oddly valuable skill for a Super Nation.

“Awe, but I thought there was 'so much more to do'...” He laughs, finally returning his attention to the cock in his hand. He's always loved France's cock. Okay-- so he's definitely not the only one, but still. He loves it when it's hard, throbbing in his hand, the flared head dripping with need for him... Yeah. He's definitely enjoying that sight. His own cock is practically drooling, dripping need into his briefs as he takes that shaft back into his mouth, taking more now. He drags his tongue over that throbbing vein and sucks the saltiness of his skin away before twisting off, then back on again.

“Nng, yes. Much more to do.” Francis sighs happily. “And I intend to do it all - on Angleterre’s couch, on his desk, in his kitchen, on his bed...” He will happily let Alfred admire his cock another time. It's as gorgeous as the rest of him, after all. Right now, however, he wants nothing more than to bury his cock in that teasing, hot, wet mouth. He's too considerate a lover to do it, of course, but he does push America’s head downward, forcing him to take in a little more.

He decides to play to Alfred's vanity; it's a weakness they share, so he knows well how to manipulate it. “AH, I love watching you do this. So lovely, your skin all flushed, and those pretty lips wrapped around my cock. It gets me so hard. Sometimes at a meeting I think about your big mouth, and I think of all the ways I can use it.”

Groaning a little, Alfred looks up through his lashes to watch Frannie’s lips move. Damn. France sure knows how to talk a guy off. He sucks him hard, slowly taking more and more of him into his mouth until he reaches the hilt of that shaft. His lips press in, then pull off, teasing before he pushes back down. He's starting to think Francis is really desperate for it, the way he's jolting after him as he pulls off. God, that's sexy. Combine that with the things he's saying, and he can't help squeezing his own cock through his pants. Soon he's bobbing his head up and down, slathering that cock with spit as he observes with delight the way it goes from red to a deep, swollen crimson. He pulls off for a moment, come and saliva dribbling from his lips as he licks down that shaft, all the way down to his balls, lapping over them as he holds the base upright, and carefully, carefully sucking on them.

“Putain!” France cries out. He really has not come across another lover who can give head quite the way America can. He is desperately hard, spouting off a variety of curses as they pop into his head. He can feel all the blood gathering in his cock, his muscles coiling together and getting ready to explode. Alfred is rocking his hips, presumably into his hands, and it is so sexy to think that Alfred's getting off on sucking him. He digs his fingers into Alfred's hair and moans. “Mon dieu, I'm going to~!”

The words make Alfred slip back up his cock, sliding his lips off his balls and licking back up the long, heavy shaft to lap his tongue around the head again and suck. His fingers drag over Francis' scrotum, teasing him to completion. He loves making Francis come. He makes the sexiest sounds... Fuck, yes. He can't even help jerking himself off right now.

Francis tenses. There's one beautiful moment on the edge, where he's painfully hard and Alfred is sucking just like _that_ on the head of his cock. Then everything shatters and he comes into Alfred's mouth, cursing and moaning as his whole body jerks up into Alfred's throat. “Putain de merde, c'est tellement bon, oh Dieu!” [stronger version of 'whore/fuck', it's so good, oh god]

Swallowing what he can, America milks his cock until it's spent. He gasps for air when he feels it limp enough to let go of, wiping his mouth. “Hah! Hell yeah! I don't think I've given head that good since I did Artie while you were in Belgium!” _Oh. Wait. That was supposed to be a secret, wasn't it?_ His hand pauses around his cock as he sees France stiffen. Oh. Shit.

Of course. Just as Francis is settling into a lovely afterglow, considering how best to reward Alfred for the fantastic blow, Alfred goes and ruins it all. He's beginning to think the boy should have cock in his mouth at all times; it might prevent a few wars. He could not possibly have meant...that, right? But he’s been to Belgium many, many times, and it really shouldn’t bother him that the other two nations have been together. In fact, the idea is a little arousing.

He lets the comment slide and sits up, pulling Alfred into a kiss. He can taste himself on Alfred’s tongue, and that alone is enough to start heating him up again. He runs his hands down America’s chest and into his pants, palming his erection slowly while he considers where to go with this. It is as he nibbles down the side of Alfred’s neck that he spots the desk in the corner, with a few papers still on top of it. He grins. “Mmm, I owe you a favor now, cheri. How would you like a closer look at Angleterre’s paperwork?”


	3. Round 2: The Desk

_“Mmm, I owe you a favor now, cheri. How would you like a closer look at Angleterre’s paperwork?”_

“Oh...” America groans loudly, enjoying the way France nips at his throat and tipping his neck aside for more. It's unfairly good, particularly as the man palms his cock, which has been weeping against his stomach since the moment France started begging for more of his mouth. “Fuck...” The word comes out in a gravelly little huff, and he can't help pushing up into his grasp, trying to get off on those too-nimble fingers. “I-- I really, really don't think this is the right time to do some spying, if that's what you're talking about. I mean...”

Francis shakes his head and, laughing, and kisses Alfred's nose. “Imbécile adorables.” He tries to lift them both off the couch, and finds he can't. America is rather heavy, and though his bare abs tell that it is not all fat, France isn't about to throw out his back having sex. He's already done that; after the tenth time, his doctor suggested perhaps he was getting a bit too old for fucking boys against walls. TOO OLD! Imagine. There is no such thing as too old for sex.1

“Up you get, Alfred, if you want me to do some spying in your vital regions.” He ends that with a smack to Alfred's ass.

Yelping at that slap, America scrambles off of Francis and moves toward-- Oh, WAIT! That's what he meant, isn't it? Hah! Good one, Francis. Shucking off his pants the rest of the way, he moves toward the desk and reaches for the man, a wide grin on his face. Oh yeah. He definitely couldn't wait for this. He may be a Super Nation, but France is definitely the Super Nation of Fucking. Like, if fucking was a sport, France would be a star athlete. Or something.

France takes his hand and he pulls him in, grabbing his ass again and squeezing it in tight, rough fingers. He'll leave bruises, which is hot, because just knowing they're there will drive him crazy at meetings. “My vital regions are open for inspection.” He leans in, kissing him again, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and nipping it hard, wanting to make it swell.

France groans. America is strong, and knows it well. Perhaps they _will_ fuck up against the wall, and he can let America do all the hard work. He's certain he can talk the boy into it with the right compliments. France himself is far from weak, however. He's glad for the chance to be a little violent, less cultured and careful.

Running his tongue over his quickly bruising lip, he forces Alfred backward against the desk, then lifts him on top of it. He shoves his tongue back into Alfred's mouth and pries apart the pudgy thighs. One hand starts working earnestly at Alfred's straining cock, and the other runs up and down his thighs. He pulls back from the kiss. “What do you think, Alfred? Should I help you sign some of Arthur’s work?” He aims the cock towards the scattered papers, making sure that there's nothing too important among them. He isn't cruel enough to destroy England's economy with a little cum - though that would be funny. Later. After England killed them both.

“Fuck yes-!” Alfred gasps, his glasses falling askew as the older nation uses strength he did not know he had to throw him onto the desk. He spreads his thighs apart, leaning back on his hands and taking the kiss just as Francis wants him to. But that hand has been flirting with his cock, those fingers making him shake with need and leak easily. He's so hot for it, he doesn't know how any lesser nation could hold out. Then that hand moves, clenching around his cock like a vise, and begins pumping it so expertly that he flails, his eyes rolling back as his hands push nearly every non-paper object on that desk to the floor. Oh, fuck. He broke something. He can hear it shatter-- it sounds like porcelain. But he can't bring himself to care.

France barely notices the teacup that was sitting on England's desk shatter, nor does he particularly care. He's much too busy playing with America’s cock, squeezing it and pushing his fingers over the head. He stops stroking his thighs so he can produce a bottle of lube from the pocket of his pants, which are so tight that they remain up despite the fact that Alfred pulled them halfway off his ass during their first round. He uses his teeth to unscrew the lid, then pours some over his jerking hand, spilling it all down Alfred's cock and between his cheeks. He rubs it into the cleft of his ass, just barely pressing his thumb inward. “Come, Alfred. Give me some ink to write with.”

 _Oh, Fucking HELL Yes,_ that lube makes all the difference. The smooth, wet slide of those fingers is lethal, particularly when they tease between his cheeks, making Alfred’s hole clench eagerly, despite the fact that they're nowhere near it. But then they're back, pulling at his cock, making him yell as he finally comes, spurting white all over Artie’s desk, everywhere. “Francis-- Shit, Francis--!”

Francis watches as Alfred comes hard, covering the desk and their skin. He keeps pumping, milking the cock for all it's worth, until Alfred falls back and pants against the desk. He takes the opportunity to write "l'Amérique était là" with a particularly large puddle of cum on the middle of the desk. He, of course, has already had plenty of time to recover from his first orgasm, and with America there is never a need to exercise patience. He doubts the boy knows the definition of the word. He licks up Alfred's twitching stomach, then bites down on his collar bone. He sucks hard on the spot, and then bites him again further down, intent on leaving a chain of bruises.2

America’s still coming back to earth when he feels Francis sucking and biting at his collarbone, hard enough to make him shudder with aftershocks he didn't think he would have. “Fuck, that feels good.” He hisses into his ear, dropping his head back for more. That's when he sees what hit the floor.

“Oh, Shit!” He scrambles off the desk, grabbing the pieces of that PRICELESS tea cup that went with Artie's PRICELESS tea set-- the gift he'd received from China that night they all... hung out. “ShitShitSHIT! Francis-- Help me find glue or something, PLEASE! Artie's gonna be so pissed!”

“Oof!” Francis is unceremoniously shoved onto his ass when Alfred gets up. Rubbing his already bruised behind, he glares at America. So not sexy.

“That was the point, non?” He's pouting again, because he's hard and damnit, he wants to have sex. He doesn't even have a maid outfit with him to make the cleaning hot, although with Alfred bending over naked he does have a lovely view. He can't believe the boy is so upset over a little tea...ohonhon. He knows how to get America back to the appropriate state of mind.

“Do not tell me you are _afraid_ of Angleterre after all these years! Who ever heard of a hero crying over a little broken pottery, a little spilled tea? After all,” France sneers, an absolutely wicked gleam in his eyes, “you were the one who dumped an entire ship full of it, were you not?”

America jolts up and grins. Oh, Fuck, if those words don't make him want to bend Francis over that desk and fuck him raw… “Hell Yeah, I did!” He grins, dropping the pieces back to the floor and pushing Francis back onto the desk. But he looks backward at the pieces, warily. “I'm not afraid of Artie, but I am kind of afraid of Yao. He's, uh... He's kind of scary, when he wants to be.” Fuck, now he's torn. Does he forget it, leave the tea cup on the floor, and fuck Francis into the desk? Or does he fix it so that he doesn't have to deal with angry Artie _and_ crazy Yao?

There's a fair point about China, but France’s brain has largely devoted itself to getting a good fucking at the moment and he can't bring himself to feel anything but horny. He wraps his legs around America’s waist and grinds their cocks together. “I will buy Artie a new tea cup and swear not to grope Yao for a month if it means that much to you. That should keep them both happy, oui? Pour l'instant, you should think only of _me_.”

America grins, pushing up against that cock so hard, so aggressive, that he feels France shudder-- actually _shudder._ It's a victory he never thought he'd have, but he'll treasure every second, breathing heavy against his skin and pushing his hand down the nation's stomach, between his thighs. “Then you should gimme somethin' to think about.”

Rubbing his hand over that heavy cock, America caresses it before moving lower to roughly spread his cheeks, pressing an insistent finger against his hole, groaning when he finds France has lubed himself already. “Oh, Fuck-- you better hold on to something.”

France can't help shaking as pleasure rushes through his body. This is why he fucks around with America; there's such energy to him, such force that it wakes all his passion. America truly is impatient, however, already trying to spread him open and finger his ass. France had been hoping to fuck someone today, so he's already well prepared, but he rolls his eyes as Alfred tries to get into position. “We are going to have to remove these first.” He says, kicking off his shoes and struggling out of his pants. Clad now only in his open shirt and fashionable socks, he wraps his legs around the naked Alfred and clings to his shoulders. “Alright, hero. Baise-moi.”3

Patience has never been Alfred’s strong suit anyway, and with France spread over England's desk, demanding to be fucked like that, it's nearly impossible to keep himself from just shoving him down and taking what he wants. But now... like this... wrapped around him so tight, it's perfect... “Fuck, Francis...” He hisses into his ear, pushing his cock up between his cheeks, allowing him to slide down onto it.

They both hiss with the feeling. France has never been anything but tight as a drum-- whatever magic the man has to keep himself that way, America will thank God for it every time they fuck. Still-- he is impatient. And this is going too slow, too soft. Especially with France... Looking so fucking good... He wants to take all that seduction, all that careful teasing, and throw it out the window. Hell-- he wants to make him scream so loud for him that the whole world will know just how much he loves being fucked without mercy. Because he DOES love it. That's one thing Alfred knows.

France tenses, breath catching as America fills him, stretching him and pushing at all the right places. He starts with just a few little, gentle thrusts that have him whimpering as Alfred's cock just barely taps against his prostate, a promise of VERY good things to come.

There's a moment where they're tangled together, America’s hands trying to move as France's body clings to him out of sheer desperation. But he finally grabs hold of France's wrists, pulling them back and pinning them to the desk as he leans over his body, beginning a fast, _deep_ pounding, slamming into that hole so hard that he swears he hears the man shriek.

Francis is all too happy to let Alfred push him back to the desk, trapping his arms over his head. The next thrust slams hard into him, tearing an ungodly sound from his throat as the head of that cock hits his sweet spot dead on. It seems to encourage Alfred, who is off like a jackrabbit, a blur of hips in a rhythm he can barely meet. “Baise oui, c'est dur, me faire hurler!” Mon Dieu, the slide of that cock makes him feel so good. He wants to take all that Alfred can give, and he's wondering if they can take it even further.4

 _Hell YES!_ America is grinning almost manically. France is yelling for him, saying the nastiest things in that language he's always found so sexy... Oh, he's going to make him scream-- he's going to make him so crazy that he won't be able to stop screaming!

He pushes up and lets go of his wrists, his hands scratching their nails all the way down France's sides until they reach his hips and dig in. He yanks him halfway off the desk and onto his cock so hard that he feels like the impact might bruise. Holding him there for a moment, Alfred drags his hands further, down to Francis’ thighs, pulling them up higher so that he can reach deeper. When he does Francis nearly pistons off the desk, and he knows he's found exactly the right spot. He starts pounding it, like he's trying to break it with his cock, words ripping roughly from his lips. “Oh, fuck yeah, take it! Take it, just like that-- God, Francis! Fuckin' God-- Take my cock, just like that!”

“DIEU!”  Francis yells. His lower body jerks up as Alfred slams into him at exactly the right angle, with all of his weight behind it. He never thought he'd be thankful for all of America’s hamburgers, but if this is what it does for him than he's going to forgive all the American-ized chains in Paris. Alfred is banging him so hard that he swears they're going to break through Arthur’s desk. His hands scramble for purchase, holding onto the edges of the desk for dear life. He can feel Alfred's balls against his ass, he's so deep inside. The muscles in his stomach coil so tightly, it's almost painful. He can't speak anymore, he can only scream.

“God-- Yeah, that's it, Francis! Scream for me--! Fuck!” Holy SHIT, he's so tight, and so hot, and screaming so loud that America can't think of anything else. Oh God-- this is about the hottest sex he's had in YEARS, and that's saying something. His hands dig into those boney thighs, and he's pounding into him so hard he's sure it's almost painful-- in the best possible way.

His balls are slapping against his ass he's moving so deep, so he decides to make it better by pulling most of the way out and slamming back inside again, thrusting so hard that for a moment he really does think Francis is in pain. But when he pauses the man starts whining for more. America moves again, this time slowing himself down so that he can hit that deepest possible level, crashing into France's insides, throwing his strength behind it-- because he IS a Super Nation. And he's fucking the Super Nation of Fucking. He needs to bring his A-Game.

France is pretty sure something tore, because he was unaware that his anatomy could stretch that way. Then again maybe not, because it feels so fucking good, and he's generally on the low end of the masochism scale. The desk rocks beneath them, already a good few inches from its original position. He squeezes his eyes shut and his mouth falls open.

“Nng, merde, putain, baise con cul...”A torrent of swears falls from his lips. He blinks and finds his lashes stuck together. Is he crying? He doesn't even care, because Alfred is fucking him so hard and deep that it feels like his cock is brushing against his very soul. He stares above him, admiring the glistening body and the look of such concentration on Alfred's face. Francis reaches desperately for him, pulling him down for a burning kiss. It's a brief one, because as soon as he lets go Alfred smashes into his prostate and breaks what control he had left. The coil in his stomach springs loose, and he cums hard between them. “Alfred!” He shrieks, white dancing behind his eyes.

“Fuck!” That ass-- there's nothing like it on the whole planet, and when it clenches like that around America breaks, letting loose inside of him with a loud, hungry groan. “Oh, FUCK, Francis...” His body falls forward as he thrusts himself off inside of him, filling him with cum and finally draping himself over him, breathing heavy. It takes him five full minutes to pull out and roll to the side.

Francis has passed out after an orgasm just once in his memory, but today he comes very, very close to doing so again. It takes him as long to get his vision back in order as it does for Alfred to roll off of him, and after that they both lie there panting. For once Alfred is silent, apparently at a loss for words. He allows himself a bit of arrogance for that; shutting the boy up is damned hard to do. Of course, he can't quite make his brain work, either. “That was...stupéfiant.”

America lets out a breathless laugh, turning to him with a lazy, fucked out grin. “Hell yeah, it was... whatever that was. 'Cause I'm a Super Nation! And you're the Super Nation of Fucking!”

France smiles, enjoying the nickname and what it says about his reputation. He presses his hand against America’s chest and kisses him gently. “Stupéfiant. Amazing.” He shakes his head. “I really must teach you more French. You used to be so good at it, when all of your artists came to me.” His fingers crawl over Alfred's skin, slick with sweat and cum. He kisses him again, still too tired for another round but never too tired for an exchange of tongue. “You came to me too. I remember; you changed so much, from one so sweet and shy to one so naughty.”

Smirking a little against his mouth, America kisses him again, then pulls back to kiss his cheek, dragging a hand through his wild golden waves and pushing them behind his ear. “Yeah, you taught me... a LOT of French. I remember some of it, I think... But I wasn't really paying attention to what you were saying by the end of the lesson, was I?”

France chuckles. “By the end of my lessons, you were the one screaming it. I filled you up and left traces behind; your culture is still marked.” He licks at one of the earlier bites, then sits up, cracking his back. He wonders if he can manage to make anything edible with whatever is in England's kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - adorable idiot
> 
> 2 - America was here.
> 
> 3 - Fuck me.
> 
> 4 - Fuck yes, do it hard, make me scream!


	4. Round 3: The Kitchen

There are few who appreciate food more than America, and France decides that if they're going to be doing more of _this,_ they will need some fuel. He takes Alfred's hand and, giving his knuckles a coy kiss before letting it slide out of his fingers as he walks towards the kitchen. “Let me make something, oui? You can translate the ingredients.” He doesn't bother to look back. Alfred will follow, wooed by his ass or his food.

America is indeed watching his ass sway, a little of him trickling from it. Like it or not, he's left his own mark on France over the years. It's not like his culture has escaped him. But, fuck. Look at that. Makes him want to drop to his knees and lick it up. But he doesn't, just follows him to the kitchen and hums to himself, pulling open the cabinets and shucking off the rest of his clothes as he does. It's not like he'll be needing them anytime soon. “Yeah, if there's anything in here worth eating.”

France can feel some of Alfred's semen trickling down his leg, his hole still stretched and more than a little sore. Definitely worth it. He'd do it again if he wasn't starving suddenly. He opens the freezer, finding very little to work with. “Hasn't even got any frog legs,” he mutters. But he does find some eggs and vegetables. He pulls them out and holds them aloft for Alfred to see. “Omelet?”

America frowns. “No bacon? He always has bacon...” He leans past him, searching for the package of ready-to-cook rashers he knows is there. He finds it in the back and steals the eggs, grabbing the veggies too once he sets the first handful on the counter nearest to the stove. His hand comes down to slap France’s ass as he steals them. “C'mon. Like I'm gonna eat eggs and rabbit food and call it a day. How 'bout a five-egg, extra bacon, extra cheese, tomato, and spinach omelet?”

France flinches a little at the smack and shakes his head. “It is frozen junk, Amerique. If you want bacon I will make you some - or I would, if Angleterre bothered to stock his kitchen properly.” He snatches the ingredients back, distracting him with a slow kiss. “Bring me spices, then sit at the table. I will make...something, out of this mess. You will not ask what is in it, or you will not eat.”

America kisses him back, his hand falling to grip his ass and wipe away a bit of himself. He grins as he pulls away, dropping down to the table and wiping his hand on the tablecloth. “Spices are in the cabinet over the stove. Oh, Dude, you should see him try to cook. It's hilarious. I stayed over this one night, and he tried to make something _like_ a burger... He called it "Salisbury Steak' or something. It kind of tasted like feet with gravy.”

France half tunes-out whatever America is going on about now. He's trying to identify the spices by scent and look, since he can't quite make out the writing on the bottles. He manages to find a decent pan and starts putting things together over the stove. He begins to hum a little, a catchy little tune that was topping the charts in 2000. “Ces soirées-la...”

“Hey! I know that song-- wait-- Hold on--!” Pointing at him, America starts trying to remember the words, singing along with them as he does. “'Oh what a night... Late December, back in thirty-- no-- sixty three... What a very special time for me...' Man, I haven't heard that one in forever!” He claps his hands together, thinking about the year it first came out. '76. He'd... Hah. His smile sort of falls as he thinks on it. The year he cleaned out his closet. One hundred years since he and Artie...

“Hey, can you not sing that anymore?” He shakes it off, getting up again. “Actually, I think I need to clean up a little. I'll be back.”

France was enjoying their dual-language sing-along, but he stops as soon as America asks him too, hearing something strange in his voice. He grabs his wrist as he passes, because if he leaves the stove things are going to burn. That would give England far too much leverage over him. He frowns, his thumb rubbing gently over the captured arm. “Are you alright?”

America laughs as France touches his arm. But it's a hollow sort of laugh, the kind that he likes to throw out there when he doesn't know how else to sound confident. Really, he doesn't want to think about the memories that closet gave him. They'd been angry with each other for such a long time, him and Artie... They probably always would be in some regard, after all that had happened. And that thought just hurts. Because he wants... Part of him wants to make him proud. But part of him just wants him. And he can't do either of those things, not really, because England and he will never be able to start over. “I'm just not crazy about that song. And... I mean, we're both kind of covered in spunk.”

Francis knows that's not quite right, but he lets Alfred go with a nod and a smile. Alfred knows he cares, and that's enough. They don't really talk or share deep feelings with one another, unless they're absolutely desperate. They fuck, and eat, and torture Arthur or one another until they both feel better. He concentrates on the omelets (he's caved and added just a bit of bacon to Alfred's), and starts humming something slower, a little sultry.

Taking a moment in the bathroom to calm his nerves, Alfred shoves all thoughts of the Artie From Before from his mind. He concentrates on the Artie After, the one who was so fun to fuck and fuck with-- which brings him to Francis. Oh yeah. If there was anybody on the planet who could take his mind off ugly things, it was France. Luckily, that appeared to be the goal of the day.

He grabs a washcloth and soaks it with warm water, rinsing himself off and re-rinsing the rag. He then wrings it out and brings it to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around the man and peering over his shoulder, knowing he's about to get slapped for interrupting the cooking, but really not caring. He wipes off France's stomach, before moving the rag around to slowly, seductively cleanse his hole.

France considers smacking America the moment his arms come around him, but the cloth feels rather nice, and dragged lower it feels _very_ nice. Well, he's managed to make a perfect soufflé with England's tongue up his ass, so he figures he can handle this without letting anything burn. He rocks back a little, just to give America something to distract him. He'd rather have him down there than hanging over his shoulder the entire time and claiming there wasn't enough meat.

America breathes out softly against France’s shoulder. He can feel Francis tensing, not really wanting the touch. Despite his exploits, the man's never been very touchy-feely when sex wasn't on the table. And right now he is trying to cook, which is definitely the wrong time to bother him. But he just looks so good, and so well-fucked...

He presses that rag against his hole, then into it, using a finger to push it inside and twist it. Francis groans, looking blissful as he rocks back onto it, his head falling back onto America's shoulder. With a sly little grin, he reaches around him and turns off the burners with his other hand, letting it fall to press between his thighs. “I'll take mine barely cooked, thanks.”

Francis is utterly torn. The finger feels fantastic, and he's already getting erect again - an impressive feet after coming so hard. But he looks down at the food, which was so very close to perfection. It isn't ruined, he can still save it; leave it to Alfred not to appreciate a meal made by the greatest cook in the world. It's quite the conundrum: sex or food? Then he shakes his head. What is he thinking? He's FRANCE. He can do both; it's America who doesn't realize that.

He smacks the fingers on his stove (because it is his so long as he's cooking on it), but pushes back on the one in his ass. He leans back to kiss Alfred, then releases his lips and turns the burners back on. “With me, nothing is left undercooked.”

America groans, kissing him back and pressing that rag-swathed finger further inside him, tempting him a little, wanting nothing more than to bend him over and fill him up all over again. Leave it to France to care so much about food. Perfection-- he strives for it, doesn't he? And so often achieves it. Whereas he himself tends to do things until they're done-- that's that. England always hated that. But he doesn't want to think of Artie right now.

“Don't care. C'mon...” He twists his finger, dragging the fabric of that towel through his insides, finally pushing it in _hard_ , rubbing it inside him none-too-gently, trying to reach his prostate. “Don't you miss me? It's been ten whole minutes...” The words come out in a breathy little whine, which is probably not heroic, but that's okay, because he doesn't need to be heroic when he's horny. His teeth nip at France's exposed neck, and he drags his other hand up to tease his scrotum.

The little bastard. Oh yes, France loves it-- that finger is sending all sorts of shocks through his system, but still. It isn't fair. He can feel Alfred's cock against his back, already hard and ready to go. Merde; perhaps he is getting old. He cannot believe he is the one being groped and wheedled into sex, it's like he's losing his touch! Non non, this cannot happen. It's only because he doesn't have any free hands like this, while America is free to- “Mon Dieu!” -fuck him with his fingers and a rag.

It's a good thing England's stove cooks things unnaturally quickly, because Alfred doesn't have the patience to play like Arthur did; if Francis waits much longer he's going to be fucked against the stove, and that will not be pleasant. He shuts the burners off and shoves himself back against the fingers and cock, making sure to rub himself in slow circles that Alfred will feel as pleasantly as he does. “Anticipation is a good thing, Alfred. You need to take the time to enjoy life's—” He half-turns so he can run his tongue over Alfred's lips. “--sensations.”

“Mmm...” America hums low and gravelly, his finger joined by another, France's hole easily stretching for it. Slowly, teasingly, he runs that rough fabric over his spot as though he's cleaning it off, wiping his cum from it. But Francis is never one to lay back and enjoy-- he pushes his ass back on his fingers, grinding slow circles against his cock, and it's enough to make him groan against his mouth, kissing him breathless with need. His other hand is dragging its thumbnail between his balls, over the skin of his scrotum. “Sensations are nice. You're my favorite.” He laughs a little, twisting that rag and giving his balls a light squeeze.

France moans, tempted to just let America keep massaging his prostate with the cloth. But he's determined to have his sex and eat, too. He takes Alfred's wrist and gently removes the fingers, turning completely to face him. Kisses him deeply, he eases that sweet mouth open with his tongue and forces Alfred back against the counter next to the stove. He twists and folds his tongue as though Alfred's is a cherry stem, leaving the boy dizzy enough that he remains in place when he pulls away to find the silverware. He isn't about to bother with the plates, but the omelets are too hot to pull apart with his fingers just yet. He cuts off a slice and spears it, then saunters back to his place in front of America, pressing their bodies against one another. “Close your eyes.” He nips at an ear.

Fuck, he's melting just from a kiss—and he’s _America_. If that isn't proof that France has some kind of sex magic, he doesn't know what is. He complies, his mouth dropping open in a soft groan as he does. Those teeth on his ear-- unfair. He's going to get him back for that when he's not so hard he could drill concrete with his cock.

Francis places the first bit of steaming omelet into the open mouth. His free hand runs over Alfred's chest, and he starts rolling a nipple between his fingers. He watches Alfred's face, delighted with the reactions he so openly displays. “They say French food is orgasmic. What do you think, Amerique?”

America’s mouth closes around the morsel of egg and bacon, and he groans a little, his breath going heavy, particularly as France begins to run his fingers down his chest, tweaking over his nipples. His head falls back, and he swallows, his hands sliding around the man to grip his ass-- yet again, because it's one of the most perfect asses in existence. “Pretty damn close,” he murmurs, breathless.

Francis spends the next several minutes slowly feeding Alfred, forcing him to savor every bite. He teases him once in a while, offering a morsel and then taking it for himself, effectively feeding them both. When his hands aren't busy he trails them over Alfred's chest and hips, consistently avoiding the places Alfred really wants him to touch. His lips and tongue travel over Alfred's neck and collar, sometimes heading lower to lap at a nipple or tease his naval. It's a slow seduction, everything he excels at and Alfred hates. He doesn't seem to hate it now; food really does appear to be the means to Alfred's heart. He's apparently managed to reduce the Super Power to a puddle of goo. “Mm, I will have to remember this next time I need something from you,” he murmurs against the twitching stomach.

Alfred, meanwhile, can only lay back and try to restrain himself. Holy Fuck, it's TORTURE being still for this, his eyes closed, his body one exposed nerve beneath those coy little touches. It's driving him out of his mind. But Francis slides too low for him to ignore it anymore, and he reaches down, folding his hands into his hair and carding through it, trying to show restraint even as his cock begs for love.

“Fuck, Francis-- you're killing me.” He lets his head drop back, rolling his hips upward to drag the head of his cock against the man's lips. And shit, that feels too good to ignore. “Please? C'mon... Suck it-- Please-!”

Francis nuzzles Alfred’s stomach, his hands busy holding the hips still. “Remember what I said? It is all about antici-” He opens his lips and suckles the very tip of Alfred's cock, pushing his tongue against the head. He draws off quickly, spit clinging to his lower lip. “-pation.”

He kisses his way back up Alfred's chest. There's one large piece of omelet left, and with a smirk he takes one end between his teeth. He pushes the other into Alfred's mouth. With his eyes closed, Alfred can’t see that he’s attached. They meet in the middle, and he pushes his tongue back in Alfred's mouth to give him the last bit. He tastes of their meal; it isn't a sexy flavor to him, but he has a feeling Alfred can get off on the smell of bacon.

America hips piston toward that hot, teasing mouth, and when he finds only air, he whines with the loss of him, reaching blindly for the man. But he's out of his grasp, kissing up his chest, offering him a piece of that omelet and then kissing him through it, and it's so arousing that he wants to pull him close and find a nice flat surface to throw him on. But they did that already. And twice would be fun, but not as fun as variety.

He opens his eyes as he pulls away, looking at his mouth with a more than hungry stare as he contemplates all the things they could do. But he knows what he wants; he wants to make Francis come again. Loud, just like last time. And he wants to do it in a way that will scar Artie for life... A smirk drags over his lips. He reaches around, dragging that rag from his hole and dropping it to the floor. “You know, Artie does love his tea set. A lot.”

France gasps, having forgotten entirely about the rag, and then kisses the smirking lips. He's gotten fairly hard playing with America like this, and he was thinking of bending him over the counter for a fuck. However, with that smile - he's not entirely sure where this is going, but the smile promises that he's going to like it. “Which tea set? You know he has three cabinets full, oui? More in storage; I found them when I was hiding in his closet.”

America blinks at him for a minute, uncomprehending. “ _The_ tea set. The one China gave him for a shot at my ass that night we hung out? The one that went with the cup I just broke? It's his every-day tea set. He loves that thing; didn't you know it's his favorite?”

France huffs. As if he pays attention to which tea set England prefers! He would much rather spend his time spying on better things, like England's bath. Or his bed, or - wait, what was that about China? “La Chine?”

America is, as usual, oblivious to the meaning of the word _confidential_. “You know-- We were all hanging out, I think it was like... Sometime in the 18's, don't remember when exactly. And China was still kinda pissed of, 'cause, you know, opium, burning of royal city, yadda-yadda-yadda, so England was all like ‘Well, what if I let you watch while we fuck?’ and China was like ‘Nooo~aru! I wanna fuck, too!’ and Artie was like ‘Well, nobody fucks my Alfy without my permission,’ which was like, so rude, but so hot, you know? So Yao was like ‘Okay-- I'll give you this tea set if you let me fuck him,’ and Artie was like ‘Cool.’ Well, okay, he didn't say cool. I think it was, like, ‘Splendid,’ or something. I don't really remember, he said a lot of weird stuff that night. But yeah. That was fun.” He sighs, thinking on it as he looks over to where the tea set is, all set up and ready for guests.

France feels his jaw go slack. A mix of anger, jealousy, and lust slosh together in his stomach and send his heart thudding against his ribs. When he recovers enough to react he wails and curls into a corner. “And NO ONE thought to invite Big Brother?! B-but you weren't even his colony anymore then, and he shouldn't have needed permission. I certainly didn't, and we had lots of sex! Oh, but it is so sexy when Artie tries to take control like that, and Yao never wants to fuck anymore. Quelle honte! Pauvres de Big Brother, à l'écart de tout le plaisir! Ce n'est pas juste!”

America blinks at the reaction, reaching down to poke him with a fork. “Uh... Well, I mean, this was like the weekend before I walked in on you two fucking in your rose garden.”

France brightens a little at that. “Which time?” He springs back up , deciding that even if he wasn't there the situation between Yao, Alfred, and Arthur could certainly be imagined...or recreated, given the appropriate amount of alcohol and bribery. “Non, non, not important.”

Happy with his new plan, he shoves Alfred belly-first into the counter and starts grinding against his ass, kissing his neck. “What did you have in mind for our dear Angleterre's tea, mon méchant garçon?”

America grins wide. Oh-- Fuck, yes, the way France is taking control like that is just too sexy. He grinds back, his breath growing heavy as he rocks his ass against him at just the right angle, dragging that cock against his cleft-- his hole. “Giving it a little flavor.” He hisses, letting out a grunt of need as he presses his ass back on him just right, the head of that cock kissing his hole.

France had forgotten how turned on he was from feeding America, so the pressure against his cock breaks down his usual reserve. He wishes he hadn't left the lube in the other room. What could he...ah! Cooking oil. It is definitely not his preference, but it's better than nothing. Even America could use a little more grease in certain places.  He opens the cap and spills it down Alfred’s back and between his cheeks, rubbing it over his cock. He slides his hand up to the place where his cock meets Alfred's hole, groans, and slides an oil-slick finger inside. “Mm, but first I think I deserve a little favor, non?”

America bites down hard on his lower lip, his thighs shaking as his cheeks are parted and his hole is slicked. How hot is this? He can't even breathe for a second, his body tensing as that finger invades him, France purring delicious things in his ear. “For what?” He teases him, pushing back on it slowly, clenching all around him. “Besides being the Super Nation of Fucking...”

France hisses as America widens his stance and clenches down. It's so sexy, he can barely wait to get inside. He pushes a second finger in and continues to lavish the bent back with wet kisses. His other hand trails between America’s thighs, playing with the oil before taking hold of his cock. “For feeding you. And because it is only fair; you did leave quite a few bruises from that first round.”

He doesn't mention that he quite likes them, and will happily squirm in his seat at the next meeting. He doesn't need to say it; Alfred knows it very well. Francis slides another finger in and crooks them, aiming expertly for his sweet spot.

“Fuck!” Alfred hisses. He knew that was coming-- anticipated it-- wanted it so bad that the waiting almost hurt. But then it was there, shocking his body like lightning, filling him with hot sizzles of pleasure that make his body jolt and his toes curl. His cock presses hard into the cabinets and he rocks down on those fingers, his brain slowly dissolving in the heat. “Wh-- What do you want in return?” He already knows-- can't wait-- but he wants to hear Francis say it in that low, sexy purr that could make him come all by itself.

Francis grins, rubbing Alfred's prostate one more time just to feel him jerk. He slides his fingers out and presses his cock up against the hole, just barely pressing inside. It's difficult to remain still when absolutely everything in him is trying to drive his hips forward, but the knowledge that it is absolute torture for Alfred keeps him in check. He forces Alfred to bend down over the counter until his face is nearly pressed against the cool stone. He leans over with him and licks the shell of his ear. “I want to fuck you, mon lapin, until I spill myself inside you. But I have a rule; if you want to give Arthur extra cream for his tea,” he squeezes the base of Alfred's cock, “you don't get to come until I pour you out.”

“Shit—” America curses low, voice heated with need as that hand squeezes the base of his cock, making him shudder. Fuck yeah. Oh God, France can take control like this anytime, as long as it's not during meetings. He thrusts his hips into that grasp, his skin burning with the want to be taken, and the cool countertops just make it feel twice as good. _'You don't get to come until I pour you out...'_ He shudders. “Fuck, Francis... Yes. God, yes. Do it.” He almost begs-- almost-- his ass rocking backward as the man drives him crazy, refusing to take him yet. Part of him wishes France would make him beg to come. Not that he wants to relinquish control... any other time.

Francis takes the time to kiss the ear and slowly, slowly trace his fingers over Alfred's hips. He rocks, pushing just a little further inside. Alfred whimpers and squirms. He hums a little and kisses his neck, finding a spot to gently lick. Then, in one instant, he digs his fingers into the hips, bites down on his neck, and thrusts his cock all the way inside. Oh, yes! Alfred is tight and quivering around him, all heat and life. The smell of the omelets is nothing compared to the smell of Alfred, and he buries his nose into his shoulder. Then he starts to move. He keeps Alfred still with the hands on his hips, rocking forward and back in long, smooth thrusts.

America’s breath is coming out in short, heavy pants as the man overpowers him, pinning his hips to the cabinets and demanding he hold still while he takes what he wants. Fuck. He wants to squirm, fuck back, aim him perfect so he can feel those firecrackers in his nerves ignite. But it's like Francis is actually avoiding his spot, forcing him to concentrate on the way he's being taken. All he can do is groan, clenching his hands into the counter and his ass around that cock. “Just-- Fuck me, Francis, Please!” He cries out, begging for real this time.

France lets out a groan from deep within his chest. Dieu, it's so sexy when America begs like that. He has a recording of it that he listens to sometimes when he can't get to sleep; there is nothing like a good orgasm to cure insomnia. America is exhausting to listen to at meetings, when he is all ego and so very loud. These moments, when he's shaking and pleading for more of France's cock, make it all worth it.

He shifts Alfred's hips and changes the angle of his thrusts, still enjoying the slow slide and the smack of flesh-on-flesh. “Ma petite pute.” He drags his teeth over Alfred's shoulder. “They call you the melting pot. Is this why? Because you let the whole world fuck you? Tell me, Amerique, did you like having China in your ass?” He gives a vicious thrust, and his aim is true. “With the state of your economy, I'd say he's still there.”

“Fuck-! There!” America cries out, his hips trying to thrust back onto that cock, speeding up the rhythm, trying to make him MOVE, because this is just plain torture, and he's seriously about to lose his mind. Oh-- Oh God, those teeth, scraping over his skin, and that slow rhythm that forces him to shiver with anticipation, with need, so that every thrust makes his heart jolt “Oh-- SHITYes, Please! Please, More, Francis, Please!”

Alfred clenches hard around him and for a second, France can’t breathe. His willpower breaks, and he releases Alfred's hips to wrap his arms around his body, drawing them as close together as they can be. His hips piston in and out of Alfred, moaning as the slick muscles slide around him, begging him not to go and welcoming him each time he returns.

“Tu es si beau comme ça. Je pourrais faire l'amour avec toi pour toujours. Je pourrais t'étaler pour que tout le monde te voie, te pousser contre la table de conférence et t'enculer jusqu'à ce que tu hurles mon nom. Tu aimerais bien, oui?” The words slide over his tongue, a monologue of bright compliments and dirty threats. He always slides into French when he's getting close. It's like his mind doesn't have the energy to translate it anymore. But it is the language of love, and he has never yet had a complaint!

“Oh, God, Fuck Yes--!” Alfred has no idea what he's agreeing to, or if he's agreeing to anything at all. He just knows that the French is damn sexy, and his body is shaking like a leaf, and Francis has let go of his hips so he can slam back on that cock exactly how he wants to. Hard. So fucking hard, he can't breathe and doesn't want to. He feels him thrusting back, harder and faster than before, and he knows he's close-- he's nearly there. Oh God, the thought makes him realize his own ready cock, and he clenches his teeth, trying to hold himself back and wait. “Francis--!”

They are both on the very edge now, slamming against one another so hard that he can feel their bones rattle. Francis crushes Alfred against the counter and holds him still, one hand pinching around the base of Alfred’s cock as he drives his own home once, twice, three more times. Alfred's body clamps down around him, a desperate bid for the orgasm that he will not let him have. But that certainly doesn't stop him. The pleasure crests and crashes down over him. His teeth latch onto Alfred's shoulder as he rides it out. “Oh, merde!”

“Fuck!” Alfred cries out again, his hips jerking listlessly as he feels Francis coming, his own cock still barely able to contain itself. His body shudders hard, and he groans for him, wishing he could show the man how much feeling him lose it turned him on, somehow. Without disobeying him. He leans back, craning his neck and begging for a kiss. “Fuck...” He says it yet again as he takes his mouth, kissing him hard and wet, his tongue taking control so fast that he feels Francis's grip weakening.

France is still shaking a little as he comes down from his high, and quickly finds himself succumbing to America’s kiss. It's like being fucked in the mouth. He's got very little time left if he wants to keep control, or he may find himself bent over the nearest surface. Not that he would mind, it's only he really does want to leave a little surprise for the English bastard.

He pulls out and drags Alfred to the table where the tea set is out. Then he slides down Alfred's back and lands on his knees facing Alfred's dripping ass. He spreads the cheeks as wide as he can with one hand, and the other reaches to aim Alfred's cock at the cups. “Alright, Alfred. The water is boiling; let's add that cream.” He licks over the cleft and shoves his tongue inside, tasting himself.

The second that wicked tongue touches him, Alfred explodes with a very un-heroic yelp, his whole body spasming, coating that Chinese porcelain in cum and yelling wildly for Francis, calling him every kind of god and devil. He can't stop shaking, can't stop feeling it. He can't even come down. It takes him a full minute to start breathing again. “Fucking GOD!”

France smirks, licking cum from his hand and around his lips. “Yes, I am.” He gently pulls America to the floor, where they can both wait for their breath and strength to return. His legs feel like jello, but his back is just fine. He isn't old. He's _experienced_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "Quelle honte! Pauvres de Big Brother, à l'écart de tout le plaisir! Ce n'est pas juste!” What a shame! Poor Big Brother, left out of all the fun! It isn't fair! 
> 
> 2\. "mon méchant garçon", My wicked boy.
> 
> 3\. “Tu es si beau comme ça. Je pourrais faire l'amour avec toi pour toujours. Je pourrais t'étaler pour que tout le monde te voie, te pousser contre la table de conférence et t'enculer jusqu'à ce que tu hurles mon nom. Tu aimerais bien, oui?" You are so lovely like this. I could make love to you forever. I could spread you out for all the world to see, push you up against the conference table and fuck you until you scream my name. You would like it, yes?


	5. Round 4: The Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the fact that neither of us speak French, so we had to rely on Google Translate. If it's wrong, feel free to giggle at us (and send a correction if you've got one :D).

Alfred lets out a laugh as he's pulled to the floor, reaching over to cup Francis’ cheek and draw him in for a kiss. Fuck, that taste... It makes him rabid, and he bites Francis' lower lip, daring him to kiss back. Which he does. Because he likes to think he can recover from anything faster than anyone else. By the time he pulls back they're both panting, and he looks at Francis, realizing for the first time what a fantasy this day has been. He grins, knowing that he'll remember this every time he gets pissed at Artie. And every time he needs a little self-love. “Thanks. For... Everything, I guess. Today.”

France is taken aback, and his heart skips a beat. Not because he's in love - well, perhaps a little, but he's a little in love with everyone. It's only that, in all these years, no one has ever actually thanked him before. He's touched, and damn it all if he isn't tearing up again. He leans forward for a long, slow kiss, filled with a tenderness he reserves for the sweetest of lovers. “J'ai le plaisir. And thank you, Alfred. I have not had this much fun in a long time.”1

Alfred grins, taking that kiss with all the attention it deserves, savoring it, because Francis doesn't give kisses like this often. Or ever. The kiss is slow, filled with an emotion that can't really be named-- because it's hiding the thing that can. He'll always be a little bit in love with Francis. And Artie. Part of him thinks he's just divided his heart between the two over the years, never fully loving either of them, but... loving them both. In strange ways.

After a moment he pulls back, resting their foreheads together, their noses brushing. And Francis thanks him as well, and he wonders, for what? What has he done for the man that Francis has not done for him ten-fold? “Now THAT'S a compliment.” He chuckles a little, tucking those lovely golden waves behind his Francis' ear again, tenderly. He likes looking at him. When they're close like this... He can see exactly why he has so many lovers.

France laughs as well, enjoying a few more soft kisses. “England is going to kill us, you know.” He smiles as he says it, his thumb rubbing circles over Alfred's arm. “You're the Super Power now, you'll have to protect me this time around.”

His smile is wide, recalling their very first alliance together. One frightened young boy, sending a brilliant old gentleman to live among his nobles and woo his women so that all of France was half in love with the idea of an independent America. It was not only to get revenge on England that he helped, it was the strange affection the boy had inspired in him since they first spotted him from out of the wilds of the new world. When he begged Prussia to help as well, the (ex)nation had laughed and asked if he was in love with the boy or just hard for him. It was a little of both.

America smiles, a little sad, recalling the things that he was trying not to think about all day. The early days of his and England's separation. The time when things were... really broken between them, to the point where the damage done was simply too much. But looking at France now, after all these years... Knowing what all of them have been through together... “With my life. I swear.”

He wraps his arms around France, resting his lips against his neck and hugging him close, wishing he could say thank you one more time, but not knowing what to thank him for. _'Thank you for believing in me, fighting with me, saving me... Thank you for wanting me, just a little. Just enough. Not too much. Thank you for making me grow, and love, and appreciate beauty, and teaching me the things that Artie never did, never wanted me to learn. Just...'_ “You're really... really important to me.”

There is so much more behind those words that France can feel. He sinks into the embrace, drawing his fingers through the mussed, sweaty hair and rubbing his back. “You are to me as well. Where would we be without one another, eh? You, subject to Angleterre's whims - and worse, his food! And I, locked away in my own home while the world went mad and they took...”

A shiver runs through him, and he feels Alfred tense. He doesn't know why he's bringing up things that neither of them talk about. Perhaps it is because they can never really be free of history. He shakes his head and kisses Alfred again. “Pardonnez-moi, I am sounding like Arthur when there are much more pleasant things to say and do. After all, there are plenty of rooms we have yet to...visit.”

For a second the man sounds so sad that Alfred wants to distract him in every way he can. But, as usual, he comes back to himself and returns to the flirting tone he so loves. He smiles, then grins, using his strength to roll the man onto his back, one hand sliding down to smack his ass as he drags himself to his feet, stretching. He surveys their handiwork, grinning at the sight. “Yeah... I really don't think Artie's ever going to use that tea set again.”

France rises a little more slowly, a few bones protesting, but all popping back into place. He considers the set thoughtfully, still amazed by the story he never guessed was behind it. He wonders if England has acquired all his tea sets by selling sex. It's possible; he's pretty sure both he and Spain sent hand-painted tea cups after that one night he let them both...oh, such a good night. The hangover had been absolutely worth it. But he sent it as a compliment for England’s body, not someone else's. He pats America’s shoulders. “I think you have every right to do with that set what you please. Yao fucked you, and unless you've been Arthur's rent boy all these years, that means any...ah, payment, is yours.”

Alfred chuckles at the thought, looking at him like he's out of his mind. “Rent boy? Francis, I did it because it was hot. Not because anybody was making me.” He grins, leaning into his face as he grasps his shoulders, drawing him closer. “I like it when Artie takes control. When he shows me off like he still owns me. When he takes me by the neck and makes me suck cock-- any cock-- because I was his first, so only he can make me, and everybody else has to stand in line and beg for permission. It's my favorite game with him. And just doing this with you...” The smirk on his face turns wicked. “Makes me wonder just what he'll do to me next time we play. What he'll make me do.” He reaches up, toying with a strand of Francis' hair, before sliding his fingers through it. “Call me a freak. But I love it. And I have, for a very long time.”

Francis cannot deny fresh stirrings of arousal at those words. He knew Alfred had a submissive streak, but to play such games with Arthur so often? He crosses his arms and pouts. Far be it from him to call anyone a freak, but really! The nerve. “He never let me fuck you!” Granted they fucked anyway. That was beside the point. That was a game of keep-away, a mutual pact to screw as often as possible behind Arthur’s back, just to piss him off. “Wait. Were you doing that after we both agreed not to touch him?”

America’s eyebrows raise at the rare show of jealous stirrings behind those eyes. Really? France? He thought the man didn't know the definition of the word. “Which time?”

France’s eye twitches. _'Which. Time?!'_ Did it matter? Those were all times when he was violently angry with England, and America usually was too! And yes, maybe he had hate sex with England a few times too, but...it was different. He couldn't think of a reason why at the moment. This was almost as bad as the time England sent him that picture of himself fucking a very willing Canada. Suddenly, the cogs in his brain click into place, and he has an idea. It is so much better than any of the others he's had today, and that's saying something, so he cannot keep the half-sane grin from spreading across his face. “Alfred. Do you know the one thing that will piss Arthur off more than all the broken teacups in world?”

“Uh...” America looks away, kind of backing up a little. Okay, the look in his eyes is... definitely a little crazy. Back away slowly, back away slowly... “A broken teapot?”

“No.” Francis catches Alfred's wrist, aware that the boy could break free if he really wanted to. “Try, a broken Alfred. All trussed up, legs spread wide and begging for cock. In _French_.” He uses the wrist to drag him closer, taking his jaw in his hand and forcing the boy to meet his eyes. “Nothing in this world will make him so angry as seeing me using his toy. Only this time you're going to be my toy, and he is going to ask _my_ permission to fuck you. Do you know what I'm going to tell him, mon lapin?” He licks a hot stripe up the side of Alfred's face.

America’s breathing literally stalls. Oh God, the words light him up like a match, and he can't help envisioning it-- France taking him and tying him up and making him HIS toy... He shudders, letting his wrist be taken, his body be dragged... Oh-- Oh Fuck--!

“Wha... What are you going to tell him?” he asks, because it's the question he wants to hear, and something in his soul is reaching for this like it used to reach for freedom. Francis... The man is beautiful when he takes command, just as beautiful as Artie. He wants to be at his mercy right this second. Indeed, he's melting into it right now.

“To go fuck himself.” With that, Francis shoves Alfred toward the stairs. “Walk. We're doing it on his bed. I want him to smell us every time he tries to sleep.”

Swallowing hard, Alfred lets himself be pushed to the staircase, his body following Francis' demands as his mind contemplates the good and the bad of this. Fuck-- Artie's going to be pissed. Turned on, but mostly pissed. But that thought just makes him grin, hurrying up the stairs to Arthur’s bedroom, anxious but also excited. He turns back to look at Francis, smirking ear to ear, holding his arms out as if to say _'I'm here-- so what're you gonna do with me now?'_

France looks America up and down, enjoying the view of the muscled body, already covered with evidence of their afternoon together. There are bruises all over the boy's neck and splashes of cum across his stomach. Oh, what to do now? There are so many options. He glances around England's room, eyeing the decor with distaste as he catalogues all of the places he knows England keeps toys...and all of the places he's hidden some of his own.

He strides into the room, the hand on America’s chest pushing him toward the bed. “Now, lapin, I think it is time for a French lesson. If you do well there will be a reward,” He tweaks a nipple. “But if you do poorly...” He shoves him backward, and reaches for the belt England has hanging over a bed post. “There will be consequences.”

America’s back hits the sheets, and he pushes backward onto the bed, eyeing France with both wariness and lust. He's never played these games with France before; not the way they're playing them now. But he can't wait to try.

“Okay.” He breathes out roughly, one hand reaching out for him as the other holds him up. Biting his lip, he examines Francis' body, all the bruises and the evidence from earlier that was not quite wiped away completely... Take that, and combine it with the commanding, push-you-down-and-make-you France he's seeing now, and there is nothing hotter on this earth. He may even be hotter than HE is. Now THAT'S saying something. And that belt... He shudders, peering at it through his lashes. “Beginner's course first?”

Francis folds the belt over and drags it against Alfred's cheek. It's a perfect tool; it makes a nice sound when he snaps it against his hand, but there isn't much sting to it. “But of course. We will start with the basics. First, you must know _'oui,'_ and _'pas'_ or _'non'_ \- yes and no. I intend to have you screaming both. Répétez - that is, repeat.”

America sucks his lower lip into his mouth, closing his eyes at the feel of that belt dragging over his cheek, promising things that... Just make him quiver. Oh God-- he can't think, not with that thing in his hand and the intention hanging in the air, just waiting to be confirmed. He wonders if it will sting... If France will actually use it on him... “Oui.” He tries, peering up at him through his lashes and leaning back on both hands now, almost offering his body up to him, displaying it for that belt or his hands... He can't decide which he wants.

France climbs onto the bed, hovering over America for a moment. Then he leans forward and sucks that lower lip into his own mouth, caressing it with his tongue. He drags his teeth over it as he moves back. “Bon. I know Arthur taught you English manners, but you have certainly lost touch with those. Let us see if I can bring them back? It is important to say _'s'il vous plaît'_ \- please - and _'merci'_ \- thank you. If you want me to do nice things to your body, that is. So, Alfred - do you want me to touch you? Say ‘yes, please.’”

Oh, fuck-- it's so unfair, the way Francis can turn him to putty with a simple kiss. The drag of his tongue, the pull of his teeth, it's all Alfred can do not to pull Francis down and roll him onto his back. But they're playing differently now. Now it's all about Francis, all about him being in control. And that-- that is a beautiful thing. So he responds, leaning up against him and speaking, pretty-as-you-please, just as a good boy would. But his voice belies nothing but naughty thoughts, indeed, it's heavy with them, filled to the brim with lust. “Oui, s'il vous plait,” he pauses for a moment, a small memory rising at the words, making itself useful, “mon Enseignant.”2

Francis drags the belt down Alfred's chest, following with his lips. They close around a nipple and he sucks on it, while the belt travels further to brush against the hardening cock. His own is filling, too, and his body hums pleasantly. He's not sure which is better - having Alfred like this, or having Alfred in Arthur’s bed. “What do you say when something nice is done for you, Alfred?”

Alfred hisses as those slick lips close around his nipple and suck, making his hips jolt and his nerves shake, his fingers digging into the sheets, clinging to them. He wants more of that. Fuck, he'd give anything right now to have Francis touch his cock. But that belt... Christ. He knows what he's supposed to say, knows what Francis wants to hear. But he also knows that the belt in his hand is even more of a tease than his mouth and his fingers combined. So he decides to walk the line-- let Francis decide if he should be punished. “Thank you?”

The boy thinks he's clever. But Francis is well aware that Alfred wants the belt just as much as he wants anything else. He grins, raising it to press against the side of Alfred's face. “Try again. It is _'merci'_.” Alfred begins to speak again, but before he can get the word out Francis shoves his tongue inside, forcing his mouth into a brutal kiss that allows no room for argument. He takes what he wants and allows Alfred nothing in return, forcing his tongue away and purposely pressing harder than is strictly necessary. When he's finished, he sits up and runs the belt over Alfred's chest. “Ohonhon, I never said this game was fair. It seems you have failed twice. I think that deserves punishment.”

Alfred is still panting from the kiss as Francis speaks again, the smug bastard-- half playing, half gloating. But that's Francis all over. They both know what he wants, and it seems Francis wants it too. Chewing on his lower lip, he looks down at the belt in his hand as it slides cool and threatening over his chest. “Oui.” He breathes out, his heart thumping wildly into his ribs. Fuck... The anticipation is killer. So killer that he bites town on his lip a little too hard. It splits easily, already so bruised from Francis and his wicked kisses, and he sucks on it, tasting blood.

France considers him for a moment, and almost leans in to lick at the blood himself. Somehow the split lip makes America look even sexier, and he has to remind himself of the roles they are playing. He decides America will look even better with a little extra color. He swings the belt and slaps it against his ribs. The SMACK echoes through the room and America flinches, but doesn't appear to be in real pain. Oh. That reminds him. “Before we play more, Amerique, I will give you a safe word, oui? Just in case. We can use the same one as before: Louisiana.”

The sting is sweet, riding right through his nerves and down his spine, so fast that even as Alfred's jolting, grunting with it, he's quivering for more, his body breathless with anticipation. “Louisiana. Okay.” He nods, eyes fluttering open again to look up at Francis, his hands untwisting from the sheets slowly. “Okay.” He lies back, stretching his arms above his head and showing himself off for him, his thighs spreading to display his cock, hard and still slick from last round. “What's next, mon Enseignant?”

France grins, and lets himself lap at the bloody lip. It's sweet, and when he slides his tongue back into America’s mouth it colors their kiss with something dangerous. He likes it. “I think you are ready for more complicated terms. You will repeat: J'appartiens à la France.” He speaks slowly, pronouncing each word as though he were speaking to a very young child.

The taste of his blood in their kiss makes Alfred slightly crazy, groaning soft and hungry as he pushes up again, trying to take more, make Francis and his unbelievable tongue stay exactly where they are. He sucks that tongue, trying to draw it back, but to no avail. Francis pulls back, demanding that he speak for him, and he tries very hard to concentrate on the words, but... It's nearly impossible. “J... J'appar--teens à la France.” He mumbles it quick, trying to draw him into another kiss-- one that will stay.

France groans, the words caressing his skin and curling around his cock. He thanks his past self for thinking to install camera's in England's bedroom, because now he will be able to hear that stumbling French over and over again. He teases America, kissing his cheeks, his forehead, and his nose. “That is right. You belong to me.”

Finally, he lets America take his mouth, the boy pouring fire over his tongue, begging him to move it. He complies, because he did promise rewards for each correct answer. He's surprised by how good America is being, and ruffles his hair. “Such a good boy. I did not think you would be so easy to train.”

America sighs into that kiss, loving it for the reward that it is. God, yes. He'd take such rewards from France any day. Rolling his tongue against his, he kisses him with such hunger that he might as well just pull away and beg. He just barely stops himself, rocking his hips up a little to drag his erection up against France's, offering friction as he shows himself off, practically pleading with everything he has-- _Give me something, anything, everything…_ “I'm easy for who I want to be easy for.” He licks his lips, dragging his gaze up to him slyly through his lashes. “I'm a very good toy... Everyone says so.”

“Everyone?” Franc asks, raising his eyebrows. America is starting to sound as bad as he does. But he doesn't really want this to be easy. He wants a show, something that England will hate them for. Or love them. Probably both. So if America is going to be a good boy, he's going to set him up for failure. He smirks. “Such an impolite boy. You forgot to say _'merci.’_ ” With that he brings the belt down again, and again, coloring Alfred's torso with splotches of pink.

Canada's been there for _hours_ watching them, utterly ignored. Whenever he got the confidence to speak or make a move toward them, he was always stopped. France smacked him with one long leg as he wrapped himself around America, America nearly punched him while gesticulating, and after tripping over them in the kitchen, he gave up. Which is not to say the afternoon was a complete loss. He blushes a bit as he looks down at himself, cock in hand for the third - fourth?- time that day. It was hot, watching them fuck. Then he hears the door open, and he freezes.

One floor below, the suite door opens. Confident that Francis and Alfred have attention spans that are too small to be accurately measured, Arthur throws his coat on the desk, intent on hanging it up later... Until he notices... The mess. His papers, his clock, his treasured Chinese porcelain tea cup... all thrown to the floor. What the bloody hell?

He pulls his jacket from the desk, and finds that the papers on the floor may have been the lucky ones. But... He's going to have to burn his jacket. With a gasp, he drops it to the floor and heads to the kitchen, intent on grabbing gloves and cleaning materials, or a hazmat suit, or something. And that's when he sees... His tea set. His blood turns to ice.

Meanwhile, America is losing his mind as France uses the belt on him exactly as he likes it. “Ah-!” He cries out, jolting a little at that, sinking his nails into the bed. _'Fuck yes, play dirty...'_ His mind is begging, even as his body twists a little, the feeling of that belt flaring something up inside, something that makes his whole body feel like it's frying from the inside out. Shit, yes. He needs this-- needs France to make him bad, even as he tries to be good. “M-Merci--!” He gasps, rocking his hips upward, his cock jolting hard as all fuck, dragging perfectly against France', offering him a delicious shudder of pleasure that, at the very least, makes him harder still.

The pressure against France’s cock sends shocks of pleasure through him, and he grinds back hard; it's enough of a reward, in his opinion. He keeps rolling his hips as he leans down close again, whispering against America’s lips. “This is very important. You must say it just right, oui? You should know how to beg for my cock: Je veux ta bite, s'il vous plaît me baiser.” He says it quickly, easily, emphasizing the key words with a grind of his hips.

“A--Ah-! Fuck!” Alfred gasps, his body shuddering with brilliant white heat as he begs for his pleasure in every inch. What is he saying? What does he want? Oh-- Jesus Fuck, more French. He doesn't even understand. And, in fact, he just barely cares, his heart racing as his hips twist and grind up against that cock at every word, changing the rhythm. Fuck--! He wants-- Shit, what the fuck did he say? “Ah-- J- Je voo ta bite, s-s'il vous plait me base-- Base-- Fuck!” He gasps again as Francis plays dirty-- really dirty-- rocking down on him so hard that his cock begins to dribble need. “Fuck!”

Downstairs, England’s fists curl at the sight of the tea set, teeth set hard and his eyes wide and dark with anger. He's about to go to France's room and literally tear the door from its hinges, when he hears the noise from above. A yell. A hot, pleading yell that sounds very familiar. “Alfred...” He hisses the name, slowly dropping his supplies to the floor and heading toward the stairs, rage simmering just beneath his nerves, waiting to be released.

Upstairs, Francis grins wide, never before so pleased to hear Alfred's mangled Franglish. He clucks his tongue and stills his hips, backing out of Alfred's reach even though the last thing he wants to do is stop touching him. He dangles the looped belt in front of Alfred's face. “I do not think this will quite suffice for your punishment, nor is there enough room here.” He scratches down Alfred's chest. Then he stands. “Obtenir sur vos genoux - get on your knees.”

He does not wait for Alfred to comply, but throws the belt aside and ducks under the bed to search for new tools. He pushes aside shoeboxes, a vibrator, and a union jack paddle, but keeps the hand-cuffs. He stands, frowning around the room. Where was that cane? He could've sworn he left it under the bed last week. With a shrug he grabs Alfred's wrists and cuffs them to the head of the bed, so he is stuck on his knees, bent over with his ass in the air. It's a lovely sight, but he really wants to find that cane. His search leads him to notice another figure by the door. Must be one of England's butlers; the pervert has his cock out and everything. “You. I left a black cane here last week; find it for me, and perhaps I will give you a nice reward too, hmm?”

Canada’s face flushes bright red, a mix of arousal, embarrassment, and anger. He can handle being ignored, but to be mistaken for an ordinary human - and an English butler at that! He growls and turns on his heel, forcing himself back into his pants. He doesn't even care anymore. He's going home, and he'll just give England a little advice on the way out. He stomps down the stairs, and grips an irate looking England on the shoulder as he passes. “America's still tied to your bed. France is with him...maybe in him...”

England pauses on the steps as someone walks by, gripping his shoulder, cutting through his rage to tell him where the two have gone, and—Fuck—exactly what they’re doing. “I’m going to _murder_ him.”  He snaps, pulling away from the man and continuing up the stairs, not even sure which one he’s going to murder. The words only fuel him, make him walk faster, because they’re screwing in his bed, and that’s call to kill at least one of them. Or…

To his utter delight, France had discovered the cane in England's closet, half-hidden among a host of other implements. England really does like to hit things; he should know, he is fairly certain that he has scars from a few of their sessions. This particular cane, however, is his. It is a work of art: black, with a soft grip and a wrist strap decorated with roses. It makes a wonderful swishing noise when he waves it through the air.

He runs his hand down the length of it, testing the give, and then taps it over America’s raised ass, drawing the tip between his cheeks and prodding his hole. “Do you want your punishment now, Alfred?” The boy starts begging, his entire body quivering with need. It isn't possible _not_ to touch him. He puts the cane aside for a moment just so he can gather that ass in his hand, scrape it with his nails and lay kisses to America’s back.

Arthur continues down the hall, his steps slowing as he listens to the two of them—Francis chuckling haughtily, promising naughty things in that wicked language he calls his own, Alfred groaning and begging _, ‘Please, please, s’il vous plait’,_ just for him… He smirks to himself. Alright. Maybe he won’t kill them. There are far better ways to gain retribution, after all. He comes to the doorway and pauses, going breathless at the sight. Francis has Alfred in the kind of position that most nations would kill to see him in, and he looks like he’s preparing him for punishment, running his nails down the pale globes of his ass. Christ…

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice going gravelly rough with the rage that has turned jealous, and the arousal that is just scratching its way to the surface.

France doesn't bother to look up when he hears the voice behind him, although America tenses under his hands. He had a feeling those angry footsteps did not belong to the butler. Instead he takes up the cane again. “Teaching French. Say 'merci', Alfred.” He brings the cane down on the tensed flesh.

America has his face pressed to the bed. The voice coming from the doorway is... Well, it's either England or the Grim Reaper. It's a close call, but he's betting Artie, you know, 'cause of the accent. He loses all his breath, not even hearing France speak as he tries to figure out what the FUCK he's going to do, now that he's kind of locked here and at everybody else's mercy. But then he feels something hard-- the cane-- smack down on his ass in a blow that stings his skin and goes straight up his spine. He cries out, jolting as the pain and adrenaline of the moment ripple through him, throwing his heartbeat off its usual rhythm and lighting up every nerve in his body. “Oh Shit-!”

“Close enough.” France smirks, brings the cane down again, watching the boy jump as though struck by lightning. His stomach tightens at the sights and sounds. Now that England's here, things are going to get very interesting. He's got a fair chance of making it out the window before England manages to strangle him, and he knows from experience the fall isn't all that painful. America would probably enjoy being left to England's mercy, anyway. However, he would much rather stay here, because jumping out a window naked is one thing, but jumping out a window naked, hard, and missing out on the ass before him is simply unacceptable.

He chances a glance in England's direction. Oh, my. He's sending them a look France hasn't seen since their buccaneer days, filled with fury and lust. This _is_ going to be a good gamble, after all. He smirks and leans over Alfred, running his hands and mouth possessively over the boy.

America turns a little, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head. Oh Fuck, France-- he's baiting him! He should've known this would be how he'd end the day. Cuffed to England's bed, completely at the mercy of two nations who care more about pissing each other off than giving him what he needs. He can feel France's fingers scratching up his back, his tongue skimming down his cleft and back up, and he knows that he's looking at England, daring him to make a move. But in the meantime, he's going CRAZY, his cock already hard as all-fuck and pressing into his stomach thanks to the caning.

A soft smirk plays at the corner of England’s lips, watching the display with both lust and rage. The combination is strange, powerful, and it puts his mind in an odd state of calm, calculated control. He slides out of the doorway, into the room, moving toward the bed with purposefully slow, audible steps. He wants them both to know he's coming.

“I see.” He speaks, his voice deadly soft as he gets close enough to see everything, to watch Francis dragging his fingers, his tongue, all over Alfred's body. As though it's his. “Oh, Francis...” He sighs, voice rough but otherwise nonchalant, dragging his fingers almost too light up the Frenchman's back, his nails just barely grazing the skin. Then they reach his hair. He grips the blonde strands and yanks his head back, hard. The move exposes that long pale neck, littered with marks from Alfred’s teeth, and he smirks at the sight, leaning down to slide his tongue over them, nipping one of the larger ones greedily, making it his own. Not that they weren’t all his own. As far as he's concerned, anything Alfred does in lust belongs to him. “You’re going to clean up that mess you made downstairs, my dear. Aren't you?”

Alfred feels the bed shift, feels Francis suddenly jerk away, and-- Fucking GOD, why isn't there a MIRROR or something here? Shit, Artie sounds hot like that. Unbelievably hot. He hasn't sounded that gruff, that commanding, in YEARS. He holds his breath, wanting to hear every second.

France is just as surprised. He had forgotten about England the empire, who could bring the world to its knees; he had forgotten that many times the world knelt because they wanted to. The fist in his hair and those teeth on his neck drive him to moaning, a pitiful noise that sounds almost like assent to whatever England wishes. But no; it's his turn, he isn't going down without a fight.

He tightens his grip on the cane, and swings it around to smack whatever part of Arthur he can reach. There's a gasp of surprise behind him, and he is able to break out of his hold. He pushes Arthur off the bed and to the floor, then stands over him with the tip of the cane at the man’s throat. “Non. Il est à moi.”

Canada had managed to get his pants on correctly and was nearly out the door when he heard a thud from the upper floor, and a distinctly English voice raised in lust. As well as the other two. SERIOUSLY? All of them? He shakes his head and walks into the hall, slamming the door behind him. “What a frukus!” He shouts, and proceeds back to his room muttering angrily to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - my pleasure  
> 2 – my teacher


	6. Round 5: Dueling Doms

 

Francis looks over his shoulder to poor Alfred, shaking on the bed because they have him so hard. He puts an edge of command into his voice. “Tell him who you belong to, Amerique. I taught you the words: J'appartiens à la...” 

Arthur gasps in shock when the man, who appeared to be melting in his hands a moment ago, thrashes him with that cane and knocks him to the floor. How rude! He narrows his eyes, rising to his feet as Francis commands his boy to speak blasphemies, heart racing at the sound of his voice-- so domineering, so hot. It's a challenge that he can't resist, that voice. His eyes meet his, holding his gaze as he steps into his face, taking the end of that cane in hand and lowering it, just so that he can step closer. “Oh, is he now?” He says it low, almost in a growl, watching with delight as Francis' eyes flash with lust and challenge.

The command in Francis' voice is clear, but-- Fuck-- Artie's right there, and... Shit. Okay. Alfred’s dumb, but he’s not that dumb. He’s definitely going to be killed by one of them if he doesn't say something, like, now-ish. He tries the phrase, wincing as he knows the words will only light a fire between them. “J'a... appartiens à la France.” It comes out in a soft groan, and he presses his lips together, screwing his eyes shut.France and England remain locked in that mental battle, glaring at one another, each holding a part of the cane. Then France hears America groan. His name. In his language. Has he mentioned how much he loves the boy? He's going to have to send another statue.

He breaks eye contact with England to return to the bed, and trails his fingers from Alfred's neck to his ass. “That is right, mon lapin. Such a good boy!” He mutters, kissing the back of his neck while his hands work a gentle massage over Alfred's shoulder blades. Then he slides lower. His hand reaches under Alfred to grip his cock, and he mouths the soft flesh of his ass. His eyes return to Arthur’s. “Good boys deserve rewards.” 

Alfred groans a little, his breathing going heavy at the feel of Francis, licking and kissing his way down his body. But that's only half the turn-on. God, knowing Artie is there, watching... Probably seething... Fuck... He breathes out slowly, trying to keep himself from losing it as Francis mouths over the round of his ass, leaving a bite mark behind. “Fuck...” He hisses through his teeth, wishing he could see Artie, see them both. Those two... the way they fight has always been a turn-on.

Arthur barely raises an eyebrow at the statement, smiling as Francis gets so excited, dropping to the bed again to reward Alfred with such generous affection. He moves a little closer, leaning over Francis to whisper in his ear as his hand winds into his hair again, not pulling this time, just gripping-- letting him know that he can. “You taught him that today? Oh, Francis. That's adorable.”

His other hand skims slowly up the man's side, letting only the nails touch his skin, watching with delight as it forces him to squirm a little, his body shuddering as if it does not know whether it's being touched or not. But the gentleness does not last long. He slides those fingers over his shoulder until his palm is cupping Francis' throat, and then he clenches, gripping his neck and pulling his head back by the hair, not hard enough to choke him-- but hard enough to make him swallow. He hisses into his ear, his voice darkly amused. “But teaching a puppy to beg does not make him yours. You should know that better than anyone, yeah?”

France lets out a choked groan. Merde. It is unfair how turned on England's brutal attempts at control make him. “Perhaps not. But feeding him, petting him, loving him - those do. See for yourself; I have been using him all day.” He spreads America’s ass, displaying how it is already stretched and filled with cum from their last round. He doesn't see fit to mention that America had used him as well, twice as hard. The bruises probably speak for themselves, but at least he's already been cleaned up. He lets England keep the grip on his neck and hair because it's hot. Let England think he's gained some ground, when the evidence is so proudly displayed before him.

Arthur hisses at the sight, Alfred's hole packed with cum that can only belong to Francis. Christ. Part of him is furious, wanting to rip Francis in half for all his gloating, but the rest of him... Oh, he's so turned on he has to press down onto the bed, shelling himself over France, his clothed body rocking hard against him. He growls into his ear, the hand on his neck stroking down his throat. “Beautiful work.” He nips his ear, biting down a little harder than necessary, only pulling back when he hears Francis groan a little. In that second he pulls completely away, letting go of his hair, his neck, his whole body. He pushes to the side, dragging himself up to his knees and spreading those cheeks wider to examine the damage. “Lovely.”

Francis can feel Arthur against his ass even through his clothes. He grins, happy in the knowledge that Artie is as hard as the rest of them. He’s going to have to use that. Then the bastard bites his ear. It hurts – why does the rest of him think it feels so good? Why does he sigh at the loss of him? At least Alfred is doing an even poorer job of keeping his need hidden. The boy is shaking and moaning, his thighs clenching up so badly it must be painful. He wonders how long it will be before Alfred’s knees can’t hold him anymore and he sags against the cuffs. “Oui.” He smirks, laying his head on Alfred's back and pushing the very tips of his fingers inside Alfred. “Do you want him?”

Oh God-- Francis must be TRYING to make him lose it or something, at least, that’s how it feels to Alfred. Can't he see he's in AGONY? His whole body is quivering, his cock swollen to unbearable weight. He grips the headboard, sagging a little as he feels the man rest himself against him. But then those fingers press just their tips inside, and he jolts, groaning softly, trying to convey the fact that he is dying of pleasure right now. “Fuck-!” It comes out in a gasp, and he digs his nails into the headboard, trying to hold himself up.

Look at Francis, spreading that hole and offering it up so generously, as if it belongs to him... Arthur licks his lips, reaching down and dragging the pad of his thumb over that hole, wiping some of France's cum from his Alfred's cleft and bringing it to his lips. He knows Francis' taste, so he doesn't mind it. What he does mind is the way Alfred's jolting and quivering beneath those fingers... Ah, but Francis certainly knows how to affect a man. His own hardness is proof enough. Still, he raises a hand and slaps Alfred's ass _hard_ , loving the way he jolts and yelps with the impact. “He's already mine,” he leans down, dragging his nails up Alfred's back, leaving long, red, stinging lines. “Aren't you, pet?”

The slap makes Alfred gasp-- Only Artie has ever used such a hand with him, such force. It feels good, particularly as he follows up with those nails dragging up his back, lighting his skin on fire, making it sting. He breathes in, trying to get some sense back, but when he turns his head to the side and finds Artie already there, that sexy smirk on his face, he forgets how to speak entirely.

France removes his fingers and sits back to watch England play for a moment. Arousing, but not nearly as much fun as joining in. He decides England has far too many clothes on, so he comes up behind him to undo his belt. He slides his hands into the pants, gripping England’s cock and pumping it under the pretext of preparing him for America. Then he slides the pants down and picks up the cane. He smirks.  Does England even realize that he's leaning over America, ass in the air? It's like an offering, and he's not going to refuse.

“You know, Angleterre, I asked if you wanted him. I never said you could have him, especially not when you're being so naughty.” He brings the cane down on England’s ass, hard. “Bad boys are punished. Amerique is a good boy, he knows who he belongs to. And if he doesn't...well, he may be here for a very long time.” The cane comes down again, the full force hitting England but a minor blow reaching America as well.

Alfred groans, nodding softly, and he's about to lean in, let Artie take his mouth, when the man suddenly jolts, his eyes blowing wide and his mouth dropping open in a yelp. Then Francis speaks, and Artie's cheeks color, and the very realization of what has just occurred makes his whole body shudder. Oh God-- Did he seriously--? That cane comes down again, this time laying a blow to both of them, and the feeling makes his cock spurt a little, lights flashing behind his eyelids. Shit--! “Fuck!” he cries out, holding on to that headboard tight as he tries not to come.

 _Francis, you bastard_! The words run through England’s mind and he gasps as those blows make his cock jolt hard in his trousers, already revved up from the work of the Frenchman's skilled fingers. Bloody Fuck, THAT'S got to go if he wants to last long. That, and... Well, Francis needs to learn a lesson.

Half-enraged that he'd ever do such a thing, half aroused by the feeling itself, Arthur rolls to kneel in front of the man, his hand gripping down _hard_ on the back of his neck, dragging up into his hair as he pulls him in for a feral, commanding kiss-- one he immediately dominates, despite Francis' clear attempts to. There's a battle between them, their tongues dragging hard against each other in a way that is both familiar territory and very much unknown.

The Frenchman tries to pull back, bite into his lower lip, and for a moment England lets him, because it feels too good to pass up. But only for a moment. His hand tightens hard at the base of his skull, gripping his golden tresses tightly, and he pulls him back, sucking on his lower lip until he opens his mouth again. His other hand moves between them, and he takes hold of that cane, yanking it from his grasp and finally pulling away. He tosses it to the floor, still holding the man by the hair as he slowly pushes him to the bed. “Oh, I'm naughty, am I? I'm being bad? Perhaps I should show you who writes the rules in this game, Francis. After all-- you're in my room, playing with my toy.”

France has just a moment to think _Merde!_ as England turns on him before he's dragged into a brutal kiss, as violent as some of their battles. And he's losing! And...and he doesn't care, because par Dieu, it feels incredible. Oh, fuck, did he just lose the cane? How did he get on his back? Does it really matter? He's very nearly ready to give in, just so that England can fuck him through the mattress. Then he looks over and sees America watching them, squirming and biting his lip as he tries so hard not to come. Suddenly it's the New World before him, and he simply must possess it.

“Plus mon cadavre,” he hisses. Then he jerks his hair out of England's grasp, enjoying the sharp pain when quite a few strands remain behind. He wraps his thighs around the man’s waist and rolls them over, narrowly avoiding the edge of the bed. England isn't heavy, and he's certainly not as strong as he used to be. It is not too difficult to pin down his legs and reach for the shirt, tearing the buttons open. France scratches down England's chest, and leans forward to bite hard on his neck. All the while he grinds downward, sending harsh pleasure through them both as their cocks meet. 

 _Bloody Fuck-- When did Francis get so strong?_ Arthur gasps, landing on his back as he's immediately assaulted by the man in every way, his clothes being ripped apart, his skin flaring with heat as those nails and those teeth leave very pleasurable marks everywhere, and suddenly he's a groaning, shuddering mess beneath the man, barely able to breathe, let alone grind up against that swollen, fleshy pink cock. God, look at it-- it's perfect. But he hears Alfred groan from somewhere beside them, and he knows right then that this battle is about to turn into an all-out war. He wraps a leg around Francis' waist, dragging him down and pinning their cocks together as his hands come up and slide into the back of his scalp, fanning through that hair.

“Well, we can only hope you won't be dead, love,” Arthur quips, trying hard to keep his voice smooth. It doesn't quite work. Still-- he drags his head up, snapping his teeth into his earlobe for a second before he's rolling them both onto their sides, rocking his clothed cock against Francis' nude one, and nipping hard at the skin just beneath his jaw. “But I'll certainly be over your body.”

 _If we keep this up we're going to end up on the floor._ It's an inane thought, as soon forgotten as it is made. Francis is much more interested in the way his cock is pressed up against Arthur's, the fabric rough against him and adding just the right edge to things. Or the way Arthur is pulling on his hair again, and dragging his teeth over anything he can reach. The mattress quivers a little, because next to them Alfred is shaking. He's watching them with dark eyes and an open mouth, breathy little moans begging them for release. Oh, yes. This is everything he adores, and it is why these two are some of his favorite lovers. He's cruel for a moment longer, locking eyes with Alfred as he grinds against Arthur and pushes the shirt off of him. It forces the man to release him, and he sits up.

“Oh, mon lapin, you've been so good!” Francis makes love to the boy with his words, hugging around Alfred's middle and kissing him. His fingers walk down Alfred's spine, and he grins. “I think you deserve a reward. And as you are _mine_ , I shall give it to you whether Angleterre agrees or not.” He winks at Arthur over his shoulder. He can watch. Without further preamble, he ducks under Alfred's body and takes as much of that desperate cock into his mouth as he can.

“Shit--! Francis!” America cries out, coming so hard that his vision goes white, his cock spurting stream after stream of bliss down France's throat. It's the best orgasm he's had, out of them all. He's still quivering with it moments later, when France finishes milking him dry and pulls-- or rather, is pulled-- off his cock

“God, Francis...” Arthur watches, breath growing short and eyes blowing wide as the man takes Alfred's cock into his mouth and sucks, finally bringing him off. Christ, he comes beautifully, shuddering to completion into Francis' mouth, and in that moment, his rage leaves him for the sake of his lust. His hands press into Francis' hips, and he slides them up his sides in teasing, barely-there touches that tweak his nipples and trace his collarbone, finally landing on his shoulders and gripping them hard. He drags Francis up again and kisses his mouth, licking away the taste and sucking it off his tongue, trying to take as much of Alfred as he can, but paying Francis back in kind as he drags his hands back down to touch him. His cock is swollen, larger than he's seen it in a long while, and he drags his dry thumb over its crown, still sucking his tongue almost as hard as he would suck his cock.

Alfred's cum tastes like submission, and then Arthur's tongue like victory. Francis knows how to make people want what they're seeing, and he knows that if they can make things good enough for Arthur, they will avoid a great deal of his wrath later. And oh, Dieu, he is so very glad that Arthur found them as he works his cock. He tugs his pants down to his knees, then grabs warm handfuls of his ass. It's been a long time since the three of them did something like this together. If only Matthew were here. But, he'll be content with these two. _“Ah!”_ VERY content, he decides, when Arthur squeezes and pulls on him.

His head rolls back, and suddenly he's locked eyes with Alfred again. The boy is panting, sagging against the cuffs, but his eyes are alive with interest. Arthur is biting his neck, and when he sinks his teeth into a particularly sensitive spot Francis groans and makes a face just for Alfred, his hands kneading Arthur's ass. “Mon lapin likes to watch, non?” He slaps Arthur's ass to get his attention. “Cheri, I think our petit frère needs another lesson. Should we demonstrate?” [my rabbit, dear, little brother]

Arthur can't help smirking as Francis groans for him, sucking at the ready-made marks on his throat and making them bigger, redder. God, he'd so missed things like this... Not since Alfy left him have they all spent the night together this way. It was always one or the other, never both, and that makes this moment more of a triumph for him than he ever thought it could be.

Francis' hand slapping his ass catches his attention, his hand around that cock squeezing tight for a second before slowing down. He lets his eyes shoot to Alfred, who looks beyond fucked out, but very-- _very_ \-- interested. “Well, I've always found that demonstration is the only way to teach him...” He grins, rolling to his hip so that he can kick his pants to the floor, before taking Francis' hands and pulling them from his ass. “Do me a favor, pet, and hand me the phone?” He points to the nightstand.

France hands him the phone easily, and he dials Yao's number.

“Da?” says the voice at the other end of the line.

England frowns at the voice. “Russia?” Oh God-- Right. He shakes himself out of it, leaning back to rest his head on France’s stomach, his mouth centimeters from his cock. “Nevermind-- Is China around, by any chance? Do I have the right room?”

There is clearly a smirk in Russia’s voice. “Hello England. Is right room, China is...tied up. One moment. Maybe two - there is a lot of rope.” He puts down the phone and shifts back to the bed. His voice floats over the line as he begins untying Yao (they will have to thank Kiku later for that book...). “England wants to speak to you. Are you alright to talk, or should I tell him to ~ ?” It is a good thing England does not understand the Russian at the end.

France luxuriates for a moment. They're in a strange, pseudo-cuddle now. England is far too close to his cock for it to be entirely good for his sanity, close enough that each breath makes him twitch. He, meanwhile, runs his hands gently over America, trying to help him come back from his recent orgasm. He can just hear the voices on the other end of the phone line. Is that... “Russia?” He mouths to England.

China, meanwhile, strains at his ropes a little, pouting as Ivan begins to untie him. It's a close call, but finally he decides that if England's calling him, it's probably important. “I'll talk to him. But I want those ropes ready again when I'm done, aru~!” He takes the phone and drags it to his ear. “What?”

England nods at France, and they share similar looks of confusion and abject horror until China actually speaks to him. “Yao. Sorry to interrupt your evening, but I was hoping to find out if you still had those cameras installed in my suite. You know-- the ones you think I don't know about?”

China barely blinks at this. “I don't have any cameras in your room, aru, but if I did, I would not remove them. Just like you will not remove the cameras you have in my room that you think I don't know about.”

Russia holds up the sparking remains of a very tiny spy camera. “You mean this one?”

China looks at it, and shakes his head. “No, that one is Kiku's, aru~. Arthur's cameras are bigger and more obvious.”

France stiffens at the mention of cameras, and damn it, he's sure Arthur can feel it lying on his stomach like that. He tries to cover it with a low groan and brings one hand to toy with England's hair, pushing him toward his cock. “Now is not the time for business.”

England quirks an eyebrow, his hand trailing down the back of France's thigh, smirking a little as he feels goosebumps forming. He decides to be a tease, and blows lightly on the head of the man's twitching cock. “Right then. Just wanted to ask: on your nonexistent spy camera set-up, there is an option to record, yeah? Because if there is, I would be very much indebted to you if you recorded the next hour's footage and sent me a copy. If such a thing was possible.”

“Merde!” France gasps, nails digging into America’s back and England’s hair. Really, there's no need to inconvenience China. He's got cameras at plenty of angles. It is only then that his brain truly comprehends the fact that it is _China_ on the other end. He pulls on England’s hair. “Let me say hello, oui?”

China he finds himself grinning, reaching over to turn on his TV/cam monitor, flicking through the channels until he hits upon England's bedroom and literally loses his breath. Oh-- look at that. He nudges Russia, nodding toward the screen as he hits Record. “I would love to help you, aru~, but I have no cameras in your room whatsoever. Now, give the phone to Francis, so that he will stop pulling your hair out.”

England chuckles a little, batting France's hand away. “Enjoy the show. Ah... Here he is.” He hands the phone to the Frenchman, sliding a little closer to his cock and taking hold of it at the base. Just knowing China is watching makes him twice as horny, so he can't help teasing him while he's on the phone, twisting his fingers around the base and drawing the tip of his tongue from its soft, fleshy peak to the flared bottom of the crown, following his slit from top to bottom.

Russia’s breath catches at the picture on the screen. He doesn't care quite so much about France and England, he's seen them fuck plenty of times while stalking one or the other. But they've got America cuffed to the bed, and China’s cameras are at the perfect angle to capture the view of his ass. He comes up behind China and begins kissing his neck, rolling his hips slowly against his naked ass. “The rope can wait, da?”

Francis wants to cry foul; it isn't fair for Arthur to tease him like that! Then again, he most certainly does not want him to stop, and he's honed a remarkable ability to keep his voice steady while getting off. “Bonjour Yao! I wanted to let you know about the story Alfred told me today, about Arthur's tea set. I was most upset you did not invite big brother along!”

Yao’s eyes narrow on the sight, the screen capturing the image of them together perfectly, Arthur being most cruel and teasing that much-adored cock with his tongue, licking it slow and easy so that he can see the pink shine of it touching that swollen head... oh Fuck... “I was not aware that you were anyone's big brother, aru~. Are you referring to the tea-set I gave him for Alfred?” He leans against Ivan, grinding his ass back against him, silently telling him-- yes, the ropes can wait.

“Ohonhon,” Francis laughs.  “but you have called me big brother before! Screamed it, in fact.” He feels Arthur's nails dig into his thigh and hears Ivan growling in the background. Most other nations would be frightened, but he's far too aroused to care. Besides, he's got leverage. “Tell Ivan to hush, because I know just how wide his wilderness can be. So does Amerique!” He smacks Alfred's ass; he doesn't have quite the right angle for it, but it's worth it to feel him jump.

“Speaking of Alfred, we've had a lovely tea party with that set today. Lots of cream, ohon- ho! there, cheri, there!” He groans, trying to get Arthur's tongue back to the head of his cock. “We missed you, of course. But, I thought I would let you know...” This is the dangerous part, with Arthur so close to his cock. He's still debating if it will be worth it when the rest of the sentence escapes from his mouth. “Alfred is mine now. Isn't that right, mon lapin? Say it for Yao.” He presses his fingers between Alfred's cheeks, brushing the ring of muscle and nerves, while his other hand brings the phone to Alfred's face.

America gasps as those fingers tease him, brushing over his opening, pushing inside-- Fuck! He lets out a sound that is definitely a little maddened, but that's okay. With France touching him like that, he has an excuse. But he knows what France is asking for, and he knows the answer, and he knows he'll be rewarded if he gets it right, so he stumbles through the words, rocking back on those fingers, praying he can remember the pronunciation correctly. “J'appar--teens à la France!”

Arthur laughs at the words. Ah-- so that's what began all of this. He lets Francis force his head back where he wants it-- such a turn-on, those fingers in his hair-- and after a moment of making him wait, he takes the swollen head of that cock into his mouth and sucks, only sucking harder as he hears those words. Because... Well, if Francis thinks he can claim Alfred after one afternoon, he wishes him luck. Alfred knows who he belongs to. And in the end, so does Francis.

He smirks, pulling his lips slowly off the head with a soft, wet sound. Arthur could have Francis if he wanted, right now. He could push him down, make him submit. But that's not how he does things... anymore. He's going to have Francis. But, more importantly, he's going to make him _beg_ to be his. Let him have his fun playing master. And in the meantime, he'll get to play these games with his boys, keeping them all to himself.

China can't quite remember how to breathe, the moment those fingers sink into America's ass and France says those words… “I see.” He breathes out, watching in both lust and fascination as the three of them lazily begin to work their way back into heat. England's face is calm-- slightly evil-- and he knows that look well. He's plotting something. Probably something that will result in France on all fours, begging. “Well. He is a prize, aru. I wish you luck.”

To Francis, this was worth it. Definitely worth it. He pushes his fingers deeper inside Alfred and gives his prostate a gentle stroke, just enough to reward him for the words. Of course it's a game; if he actually owned Alfred he would be bored with the boy in two days. There's no fun in the relationship if there's never any shift in the balance of power; that's half the reason he enjoys Arthur so very much.

“Merci! The same to you. Ivan's a big boy, but then, so are you! Check out his wilderness sometime, it really is something.” Ivan might kill him for that, but he'll send them lube or something to make up for it. “Enjoy your evening, mon ami.” He finishes with another stroke to Alfred's prostate. Then he hands the phone back to Arthur and blows a kiss in the general direction of Yao's cameras.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a) "J'appartiens a la..." I belong to...  
> b) "mon lapin" My rabbit  
> c) "Plus mon cadavre" Over my dead body.


	7. Round 6: The Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, the grand finale. Hope you had as much fun reading this as we did writing it!

The moment those fingers hit Alfred’s spot, he cries out loud enough for the whole world to hear, rocking back on them, trying to get more and more-- Fucking GOD, how the FUCK is he hard AGAIN? Even for a super-nation, six times is pushing it. But, Jesus, there it is, pressing up against his stomach and jolting with every stroke, every twist, every whim of that touch. “Please!” He begs, his fingers clinging to the headboard as he rocks backward, those handcuffs the only thing holding him there. “Fuck-- Please!”

Hanging up, Arthur tosses the phone back on its receiver, not caring that it's really not properly set. His only real thought is what's happening now. Francis' hand drags through his hair, trying to pull him down for more, but he pushes back, kissing up that body, watching that hand work itself inside Alfred--  Bloody Fuck, that's gorgeous. He slicks his tongue over Francis’ skin and trails it up to his throat, so that he's on his side, nipping at his neck, holding him by the hair so that he can expose him by force. “So naughty... Everything you've done all afternoon has made me want to teach you a lesson.”

Oh hell. Arthur making _that_ face, the one that lets Francis know he is going to be thoroughly fucked before the night is through. Alfred, meanwhile, is rocking back on his fingers and begging for more. He must admit he's impressed with the boy’s stamina, it's almost French. But as he hears it they all have Matthew to thank for that; something about cock rings and maple syrup. He's begged for more information, but Mattie is one of the few nations who can remain silent even when Francis is sucking them off. Of course, if Mattie has had Alfred do that as often as he thinks...he shakes his head. Now is not the time for fantasy, not when he's got two lovely boys to fuck and two more watching.

He drags his fingers out of Alfred and wipes them on his thigh, bringing both hands to grip Arthur's ass again. His head is forced back, and he can feel his throat strain as he speaks. “I can already speak English, Arthur. You taught me well: ‘Oh fuck, yes Francis, harder, more, want your cock. Bloody hell, just fuck me...’”

The loss of those fingers is like a wound, and Alfred whines for them, clenching himself, begging. Why the fuck can't he tear his eyes away? The two of them together... They make him want out of these cuffs, for one thing. He watches with envious delight as Arthur is goaded on by the man who has been fucking him all day-- and suddenly Francis is three times as hot as he was before Arthur got here. The two of them... They're so beautiful together, it's unbelievable. It makes him want to tie them together and make them fuck all day. Would that be so wrong? It would certainly make for some interesting meetings...

Arthur loves the hitch in Francis' voice right now, the little strain that lets him know this is getting to him. He's heard it before, of course, but it's always a turn-on, especially when he's pretending it's not there. Teasing him, egging him on... He's already in love with it, and he shows it, nipping at that place in the hollow of his throat that has always, without fail, made him just a little bit insane. “I'm not going to teach you English, Francis.” He smirks a little, sucking that spot, wanting to leave a large red mark so that every nation Francis fucks for the next week will be able to find his weak spot. Unless, of course, he spends that week here...

Franceis moans loud and long, digging his fingers into Arthur's ass. Mon dieu, he never should have told Arthur just what that spot did to him. He swears it was never that sensitive before his revolution. For fuck's sake, it's already marked with that thin scar, why does he need to—“Nnag!”—bruise it? His cock twitches against his stomach, and he's caught between wanting to roll them over and fuck him or spreading his legs and beg for it. He settles for some garbled curses and rocking his hips against Arthur's stomach.

Arthur lets out a small laugh, sitting up and pulling the man to straddle his lap, his cock pressing against him as he squirms, trying to get away. But he sucks on that scar hard, and Francis is practically melting in his arms, gasping and groaning and beautiful. He's going to fuck Francis into the mattress eventually. But for right now, he just wants to turn him on, light him up like he's never been before. His hands slide down his back, fingers just barely dipping between his cheeks to test that hole again, tease it. But he doesn't stay there long, dragging his touch lower to brush softly against his scrotum. “Stop pretending you're too good to beg for my cock, Francis.” He demands, dragging his teeth over the scar, reminding him of his near-undoing.

“Putain!” Francis gasps and squirms against the fingers. His limbs suddenly feel like jelly, and he's fairly certain that he couldn't fight off his cat at this point. That doesn't mean he's quite ready to give up, yet. “Non. It is you who wants me.”

He grabs Arthur’s face and forces it off of his neck and onto his mouth, using all the skills he possesses to draw on Arthur's tongue, sucking on it hard and then pulling back to the tip just so Alfred (and presumably Yao and Ivan) can see what he's doing.

“God...” America whispers, just barely audible as he watches the two of them, his breath running a little ragged with the sight. Gorgeous... He wants to be there between them, kissing France while England touches him like that... It's unfair. Why is HE the one trapped in these cuffs? Is it because he's more powerful than both of them put together? ... Okay, probably not. But, whatever the reason, he wants OUT, and he wants to FUCK, and he doesn't care which one of them does it anymore-- as long as they're doing it together.

Fucking Christ, that kiss _does_ something to England... Something that he can't even think to resist. France is pulling out all the stops, scratching up his back, sucking on his tongue, rocking his cock against him so that he can feel its hardness against his own... So resistant, yet so obviously in need... He laughs, pulling back and digging his nails into his ass, then dragging up that already abused flesh, all the way up his back, leaving marks that will probably still sting come morning. But he reaches his shoulders and lets go, taking his cheeks in hand and holding him there so that he can meet his eyes. “I never said I didn't, pet. But you want me more.”

France hisses. He might have to spend tomorrow naked to avoid further irritating those scrapes and bruises, but right now his body is enjoying the torture. He has certainly left his fair share of marks on the other two, so he can't really complain. Nor does he want to, he'd much rather encourage them. He can hear America whimper behind him, the cuffs jangling as he pulls at them. America could probably break them if he wanted to, but he's too far gone into his role as their toy. He grins at England, sticking his tongue out to petulantly lick his nose. “Mon lapin is growing impatient, Arthur. You had best get on with your lesson, or you may need to get yourself a new pair of handcuffs.”

Arthur pulls his head back a little as Francis licks his nose, childishly playful as always. But he's right. Which means he must... Damn it all-- he must let go of his want for Francis, just for a moment. He pulls away, pressing his lips to that place one more time-- as affectionate as he's ever been with him. “Very true, Francis. But... What will you do while I'm teaching?” He thinks on it. It's a decision that almost hurts, the thought of letting Francis take him again, after so long... Francis has rarely ever been inside him. In fact, the last time he'd let himself be taken this way was... But that fight is long over, isn't it? He shudders with the memory, trying not to feel vulnerable with the very thought.

France snorts. The fool. As if he would ask that of Arthur when he knows how uncomfortable it makes him. He may be pushy and perverted, but he has never, ever forced anyone. Besides, he's been getting off on the idea of a good hard fucking from Arthur for the past thirty minutes or so, and he isn't about to give it up now. Even if it means he has to beg.

He smacks the back of Arthur's head and pushes him away from Alfred. “Imbécile. Alfred is _mine_ today.” He spanks Alfred hard enough to make him squeak, then soothes the spot with his tongue. “I believe I was getting your lesson. I must make up for the tea-set, non?” He turns back over his shoulder, a naughty smile playing at his lips. “I will take responsibility for what mon lapin and I have done. And...”He drags his tongue up Alfred's cleft. “I would do it again.”

Arthur doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. The thought may terrify him, but from what he remembers... He would do it again. Despite everything. He sighs, watching Francis torture Alfred with no little lust. “You're the imbecile, my dear.” He smiles, taking his chin in his hand and pressing a kiss to his mouth. But he pulls back after a second, his fingers drawing down his throat, his chest, his stomach... He's beautiful like this, on his hands and knees, particularly when he's got Alfred this way... Arthur smiles, moving to position himself between his legs, one hand wrapping lightly around the base of his cock, the other spreading his cleft to view his hole, still red from fucking. Leaning in, he drags his tongue over the hole, licking it, sucking it, looking for a taste of Alfred.

Meanwhile, America is basking in France’s attention, feeling like the luckiest nation on earth. The smack of France's hand is still stinging hot when that tongue caresses the damage, and all he can do is groan, rutting his cock into England’s pillow, trying to find pleasure where he can. Oh God-- Oh Finally-- And they're going to do it together--! Fuck, he doesn't think he'll last more than a minute! Just watching them, listening to them, he wants to scream 'Fuck Me!' But he can't; too much pride. Instead he rolls his hips, angling his ass for France, hoping to God that he has him soon, because from the sounds he's hearing now... Just picturing it is getting him off.

Francis tucks away the disappointment he sees for later use. They'll explore this change of heart later, when no one else is watching and one member of their party is unable to move if things go badly. Then Arthur's tongue is in his ass, and he can't think beyond the sensations that are flooding his body with fire. He spreads his legs wider and presses back with a groan. He spreads Alfred open in turn, pushing three fingers inside him and twisting. He avoids his prostate, concentrating instead on harsh thrusts that force him to stretch. “Do you remember our lesson, Alfred?” The words come out as gasping pants. “Do you remember how to beg for my cock? If you beg - oh! - I might give it to you.”

Alfred is bucking back on those fingers-- so hard that it's either thrusting or breathing, and thrusting's winning out. But the devil is refusing to give him the bliss he so desires, instead choosing to stretch him wider for his cock, forcing him to beg. He tries to remember-- fuck, he can't think-- but in the end he just clenches himself around him and begs. “Please-!” He gasps the word, shaking around those fingers. “Please-- Fuck! S'il vous-- Francis, I'm begging you, Please!”

Arthur grins a little, his tongue prodding into that hole, dragging around the rim and tasting Alfred, even though it's mostly clean. He sucks, lapping and dragging his tongue in and out of him in promise, pulling off for barely a moment. “Give him what he needs.” It's a command, and Francis knows it, but he stamps it anyway, leaving a bitemark on his ass that he'll feel tomorrow. After a moment he moves to the side, pressing his fingers into that hole, stretching him as he watches him line himself up. Such a gorgeous sight... There's nothing better, is there? Pushing one finger inside, crooking it upward to drag softly against his spot, he reaches under his other pillow and pulls out lube, offering it to Francis first.

Merde. With all the blood from Francis’ brain flowing through his cock, it really must have a mind of its own at this point. None of them are breathing properly, and he’s beginning to think calling Yao was a brilliant move on Arthur’s part, just so there’s someone to make sure they aren’t dead if they pass out at the end of this from lack of oxygen. He pulls his fingers out of Alfred, his hands shaking so that he nearly drops the lube. He manages to pour a liberal amount over Alfred’s ass and his cock before shoving it back towards Arthur. He groans as he slicks his cock; Arthur had better hurry up if he wants any part of this.

His nerves humming, Francis pushes against Alfred’s entrance. “Vous êtes à moi.”1 With a violent thrust forward, he fully sheaths himself, surrounded once more by Alfred’s quivering warmth. “Ohh Dieu…” It’s so good, for a second he can’t even move. He rests against Alfred’s back, presenting himself to Arthur as he caresses the hot skin.

Francis looks just... Just delicious like this, with Alfred beneath him, so pliant and ready, and God, just look at that, the way that cock is pushing into his ass, filling it... _Christ on the Cross_ , Arthur’s mind curses, because he needs to do something before he comes from just watching. He dumps a liberal amount of lube over his hands and coats his cock with it, watching with delight as Francis shakes, looking maddened and vulnerable through sheer pleasure. Perfect. Positioning himself behind him, he takes his cock in hand and presses the tip inside, finally slapping his sticky hands to his hips and pulling them down on his cock, pushing inside swiftly.

“Oh Fuck, Francis--!” He can barely breathe as he cries out to him, that ass clenching so perfectly around his length. Beneath them both, Alfred screams, his hips bucking backward, thrusting Francis up into him, and it's all he can do to keep from coming.

“Fuck!” America screams, that cock seated in him to the hilt, hitting his spot dead on and then some. Holy God, it feels like he's coming already, and above him he feels England's weight forcing him in further-- Shit, he can't stop himself. He bucks back on that cock, gripping the headboard as he tries to get things moving-- because he's not going to last another minute. “Please--! Please! Fuck me!” Begging loud, he clenches around France, trying to get him to MOVE.

_Ohmerdebaisecon_. France stops breathing for a moment, caught perfectly between England and America, filled and filling and absolutely blissful. It's been a while since he was last in this position, and it makes him wonder why he hasn't done this more often. His brain barely registers them both yelling, America begging him to move, and he's shaking so badly there is a moment where he believes it is going to be physically impossible for him to comply.

Non! Nothing is physically impossible for France, not when it comes to this. He drops his hands to the bed and forces his hips forward, then back. “Oh mon Dieu!” Pleasure stabs at him, so strong that he's sure he's not going to last long. But he can't stop now that his hips have found the rhythm, thrusting beautifully into America and impaling himself back on England until they're all moving in accord.

The minute America starts moving, the man hits him in exactly the right place. He cries out, holding onto the headboard as he tries to keep up, but he's almost gone anyway. This moment-- this one blissful moment of them all being together again-- is enough to send him completely over the edge. He comes, losing his breath, his sight, his every thought, his head smacking into the headboard and his cock losing itself all over England's pillow. He is left a shuddering mess, unable to tell whether he's finished coming or not, as France continues to thrust inside him, lighting fire through his nerves and spinning white behind his eyes.

“Fuck--!” Arthur hisses through his teeth as beneath them, Alfred shatters, gasping nonsense and spattering cum all over his pillow. God, it's as hot as it was the first time they fucked, and he holds Francis there, forcing him to ride it out with him, picking up the pace as he feels his own orgasm nearing. Beneath him Francis cries out, bucking up into him as he slams brutally into his prostate, and he can feel him quivering, five seconds away from losing it, so he begs, “Come. Please, Francis,” and rams that place again, holding him in place as he jolts.

Francis is so close to paradise that he can see it. Alfred clenches around him hard, and the way he comes is absolutely gorgeous. Arthur forces him to keep thrusting forward, then crashes into his sweet spot. He screams, on the very edge but trying so hard to hold back because he doesn't ever want this to end. His whole body is one giant mass of nerves, about to come apart at the seams as all his muscles bunch together. Then Arthur is begging in his ear, and his cock hits into his prostate so hard it sets off the explosion.

“Oh Dieu—Arthur—Alfred!” The rest of his words descend into noise. His cock throbs and spills inside of Alfred. He must be falling apart now, his body is feeling far too good for him to possibly survive it. His vision goes white, then near black as he collapses on top of Alfred.

“Yes!” Arthur cries out. Within seconds of seeing, hearing, feeling that glorious show, he manages one last thrust before he's coming so hard that everything else stops. His heart, his breathing, every thought in his brain. He fills Francis' ass, pounding into it once more as he spasms to completion, his body falling forward, resting on his back, their sweat and bliss gluing them together as they try to remember who they are and what they did to make THAT happen. Arthur has never come so hard in all his life-- and he _knows_ Alfred hasn't.

Meanwhile, Russia and China stare at the screen, mouths ajar and covered in cum. Well, China is. Russia’s still got his cock buried in him. “Should we...are they _unconscious_?” Russia, of all nations, asks.

China is still breathing heavy, his eyes on the screen, mouth agape and hands still sticky from... Yeah. He reaches back and pulls Russia’s arms around him, enveloping himself in him. “I think... They just need a minute, aru~.”

Russia kisses and bites on China’s neck. “Can I fuck you unconscious next time?”

China smirks a little, leaning his head to the side as he lets Russia nip at him “Next time, I think I'd like to explore your 'wilderness.'”

Back with the threesome, France blinks, not entirely sure where he is for a moment. There's a lovely post-orgasm glow humming through his body, and the entire room smells like sex. Did he just...mon dieu. He actually passed out. That hasn't happened in a very, very, long time. He's pressed up against the sweat-slick back of another man, with his cock still inside. And better, there's a familiar weight across his back and a pressure, an ache inside him. Oh, yes! Amerique and Angleterre. They are going to have to do this more often. As in, tomorrow, because he couldn't get it up again if...well, alright. He probably could, but it's going to take him a while.

He groans and tries to slide off of Alfred, but in this state he can't push off Arthur. He reaches behind him, his squirming hips sending slightly uncomfortable sensations through his tired ass. “Arthur! Get off. Come on, cheri, we're going to crush Alfred like this.”

Finally, Arthur manages to get his breath back at Francis' prodding, and slowly, carefully, pulls out of him to roll to the side, looking over at Alfred as he hits the bed. He appears to have fallen asleep, bless him. Tomorrow he'll wake him up in all the right ways. He reaches up and carefully pulls the safety latch on the handcuffs, lowering his hands to the bed so as not to wake him. “Look at him. He looks half-dead. How many times did you get him off today?”

Francis groans a little as he pulls out of Alfred and falls next to Arthur. He frowns, his brain unable to calculate just how many times they've done it today. “Couch - no, that was me. Desk...once together, once him. In the kitchen - wait, that was just me. His was on the tea-set. Then...the floor? No. Upstairs. You were here for that. So…five for him?” He looks back at the sweetly sleeping Alfred and gently pets his hair. He doesn't share the times when it wasn't sex, it was just them talking and caring for one another. That is something private, just for them. “It was a good day.”

“Sounds like.” Arthur sighs, reaching over to run his fingers through Alfred's hair, smiling at the memory of the boy he once was. Thinking of it makes the man he has become all the more amazing. And Francis... He can see the look in his eyes, warm and affectionate, and it makes him smile and gather him into his arms. “I know you've cared for him in ways that I never did. I don't think I've ever thanked you for that.”

France snuggles back against Arthur and kisses him sweetly. “You never needed to. I did it because I love him, as I love you.” He slings one arm over Alfred to draw the boy closer, reveling in the cocoon of warmth. _'This is how things always should be',_ he thinks, as his exhausted body draws him once more into slumber.

England smiles a little, the words warming him more than the man's body ever could. He presses a kiss to his cheek, watching him fall closer to sleep. “I know. But I'm still grateful.” Yawning, he rests his lips against France's neck and lets himself succumb to sleep, giving into it easily, knowing that the morning will bring more of this contentment. He can't picture going without this again, not after tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 - You (plural) are mine.


End file.
